


Lil' Nugget

by LizardWhisperer



Series: Lil' Nugget Series [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: A little Skynyrd, Adult spanking--well sorta, Bed-Wetting, Blood and Injury, Bunker Life, Cas is Dean's little buddy, Case Fic, Cliffhangers sorry not sorry, Crying Castiel, Curses, De-Aged Castiel, Dean's Room, Fluff, Graphic Torture, Harry Potter References, Hunting, Kidnapping, Long-lost character--surprise!, NO freaking wings, Nightmares, Non-sexual Desti...el?, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Parent John Winchester, Profound Bond, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Spanking, Stricter Sam, Temper Tantrums, Tubby-time, Unknown Spell, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-06-03 18:14:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 41,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6621112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizardWhisperer/pseuds/LizardWhisperer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <a href="http://imgur.com/ePtqv3t"></a>
  <br/>
  <img/>
</p><p>The Winchesters discover a toddler-sized Castiel, sans angel power, full of child-like giggles and tears--yet with all his adult angel memories.<br/>All, that is, except how he got that way.</p><p>We got work to do...</p><p>ART BY:  http://captbexx.deviantart.com/<br/>used by permission<br/>(note: It was brought to my attention that the colored version of said art was not made by the original artist)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Tater-pire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deadmockingbirds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deadmockingbirds/gifts).



> I couldn't, wouldn't, SHOULDN'T-a tried this without DeadMockingBirds' help. She's my Shero.  
> This is my first fic, so PLEASE be gentle with LW.  
> Thanks.
> 
> Note: This chapter is un-beta'd, though the ellipses murderer went on a well-deserved killing spree through the next, so--prepare to pause thoughtfully on your own. Love my Mock.
> 
> Added note: Kudos are cool rain on a scorching day, but comments, well, comments are the very air LW breathes. Welcome and enjoy the ride.

There was the sensation again--

"Sammy, you feel a cold spot?"

Sam paused, "No," then continued to read aloud from a webpage.

"You _sure_ you don't smell sulfur?"

His brother looked up from the screen and shrugged, his face revealing no sign that anything was out of the ordinary.  
As he continued to read about the small-town disappearances, Sam absently picked up a tater tot off his plate and lowered it beside the table, shaking it on his open palm.  
A chubby little hand gripping a plastic pickup truck suddenly darted out from beneath the map table. Having scooped up its tater tot haul, the truck disappeared back behind the table leg, followed by a muffled giggle.  
Dean cleared his throat, announcing, "So, we can be in Massachusetts in two days--" he leaned towards his brother, then added, much more quietly, "which means the Tater-Pire's gonna need a sitter."

"Noooooo!" 

Dean scrubbed his hand over his face and peeked up at Sam through his fingers, hardly able to hide his amusement.  
"Is this table screaming again? Sam, I thought we fixed that with peanut butter?"  
The table gave an indignant "Harumph!"  
Sam leaned both elbows either side of his laptop. "I was SURE that bubble gum would take care of the noise."  
From somewhere below China, chimed a reluctant giggle.  
Dean reached down, "Guess we better get the Super Glue."

A happy, but ear-splitting screech sounded from a tiny form as he was snatched up from under the table and deposited on Dean's lap. As his giggly aftershocks subsided, the toddler fixed Dean with a pair of giant blue saucers--and a pout that would stop a derailed train.  
The child desperately tried to sway the hunter to change his mind. " _Pleeeeease_ , Dean? I don't wanna sitter, I wanna come with you."  
Dean's hand engulfed the tiny black head of hair; gently smoothing it back off the rounded forehead (attempting to tame it proved a lesson in futility).  
"Sorry, Cas, you've got to sit this one out, it's way too dangerous."  
A fugitive bottom lip was set instantly in motion, as those blue plates glistened, swollen with tears. "But you say that every time!!!"

Sam gave a sigh, as he glanced away from the now-familiar scene. Cas was crying when they first discovered him in the bunker, toddler-sized and dragging what seemed to be a tan tent behind him. Sam found him first, but when he spotted Dean, the tiny angel reached out his arms, swallowed up by his adult dress shirt, and launched his mini frame at the older hunter. "Dee-ee-aa-nn! Ooo--ohhh-oohhh D-d-dee-eannn! I c-can fee-eel...f-f-ee-eel e-e-everything! " He cried his itty-bitty heart out, burying his face in his friend's broad shoulder.  
Dean instinctively wrapped his arms around the inconsolable child and turned to his brother with a look Sam would later describe as "confusashock."  
Pacing the room, Dean stroked, bounced, shushed, and rocked the miserable little bundle in arms, until the wails turned to hiccups and snivels, pudgy little hands gripping his plaid flannel, as if release would send the toddler flying off the Earth.  
Unable to budge the tiny cling-on, Dean dipped his chin to better meet those impossibly blue, swollen eyes.  
"What happened to you, Cas? Huh, buddy--you're just a lil' nugget."

Now, in the wake of telling Cas "no," Dean acted fast--knowing there'd be no avoiding the floodgates, but reluctant to endure witnessing them. He drew his little angel close, guiding the mess of hair towards his shoulder. The predictable tears came, but Cas wasn't wailing his displeasure, just feeling his disappointment, as he expressed his toddler emotions the only way he knew how. Through his tears, he griped, "Never get to help...(snuffle) I'm no use...(sniff)."  
They'd been down this road before--Cas had had to cope with the reality of his size, age--and all the humanness of his new form. Some days, the Winchesters could make him giggle his tiny socks off; they'd show him some new and wondrous thing, like a zoo or an amusement park, or just cuddle him and hope he knew he was important to them, just as he was.  


Some days it was almost enough.  


But today it wasn't--for while his toddler body ruled his emotions, Cas still had his memories--millennia of them--and the self-awareness to feel every bit of loss he'd suffered when he became a human child. It was devastating.  
There had been comforting words and uplifting pep-talks from the men who had seen fit to care for their friend--in any state--and Cas had been calmed and temporarily soothed by them. 

Ice cream helped.

But it had just been one of those _I was an angel of the Lord but last night I wet my footie pajamas_ days and Cas needed to cry out his heartache--and so his hunters let him.

Dean continued to cradle and rock his young friend, reassuring him, "Sssshhhhhh, Lil' Nugget. There's nothing in Massachusetts but Dunkin Donuts, anyway. And people who don't pronounce their R's."


	2. Our Little Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: New tags
> 
> This chapter was beta'd by the irreplaceable DeadMockingBirds, without whom I would never have posted--let alone written--this work.
> 
> LW loves DMB

On the road nearly twelve hours alone, Dean pulled up to the bunker with a yawn and a bcreaky stretch. He’d only been gone a day and a half, taking care of a simple haunting at an upscale hotel (nice digs, for a change), but he gazed fondly at the half-hidden building. Sure, it was the place where he could find his memory foam, his dead guy’s robe, and his surplus arsenal—not to mention his little brother—but these days, the bunker seemed more a home than ever before, for other reasons.

He’d be happy to see Sam, of course, but what he was mostly looking forward to was the high-pitched little voice calling out his name, the pudgy little feet padding towards him, and the squirming warmth of his Lil’ Cas, curling against him—his whole toddler world made right in Dean’s waiting arms.

God, when did Dean become such a chick?

But as the hunter came through the door, he caught the sinking feeling something was wrong. The bunker was large, but Sam was a presence, filling a room—and indeed the interior spaces with his tall frame, clacking away on computer keys, banging around in the kitchen, or enjoying a Netflix marathon in surround sound.

The bunker was way too quiet.

Dean reached behind him for the gun stowed in his waistband. “Sammy!” he bellowed, his voice tinged with threat.

“In here!”

Dean’s shoulders slacked as he breathed out his relief, descending the stairs and heading towards the library and his brother’s voice.

“Hey.” Sam barely looked up from the large reference book he held in both hands.

“Hey. Cas asleep?”

Sam flipped a few pages, too fast to read them. “He’s in bed.”

“That’s what I asked you, Sam—hey, you all right?”

Sam cleared his throat, shaking his head slowly. Still avoiding his brother’s gaze, he spoke in a murmur, through tight lips, “And I said he’s in bed. Don’t know if he’s sleeping.”

Dean’s voice got deeper—and a little louder—“Sammy, what happened?” His impatience and worry echoed off the bookshelves.

Sam closed the book and put it aside, finally meeting his brother’s eyes with an exasperated sigh. “Ask me what our little angel did today.”

Dean was now one hundred and thirteen percent done with whatever was holding his brother back. “Just tell me what the Hell happened, Sam!” he growled, setting his jaw like he was preparing for a fight.

“Okay, okay. I lost him," Sam raised both his enormous hands, "He took off on me at the shopping center and I couldn’t find him anywhere. I had security looking and they even paged him." 

Dean’s annoyance turned quickly to empathy, watching his brother struggle through the memory.

“I kept calling and calling him, Dean. It was like when he opened the curse box and hid in the dungeon, except at least we knew he was in here somewhere—my God Dean—I thought I’d really lost him.” Sam’s frantic worry showed on his face--and something else.

“Where was he?”

“That's the worst part, Dean—he was _outside._ ”

“He left the store without you?” anger seeping back in his voice.

“Yeah, he did. He was in the parking lot, said he spotted ‘that car’ following us again. Said we still hadn’t found out who it was and _he_ was going to catch them and see what they were after. Can you believe that? I didn’t see the green car today, Dean, but he insisted it had been there. I told him to forget it, that we’d take care of it—we haven’t been threatened and it might just be someone local, we keep passing,” Sam’s words tumbled out, nearly running over each other.

Dean’s thoughts drifted a moment to the car—they’d all spotted it at different times—tinted windows, a driver wearing sunglasses. It was time to find out who Mr. Shades was.

“…so I’m pissed, Dean, you know? And then Cas starts screaming at me, saying he can still do things and we’re just stupid humans that couldn’t save the planet without him—and that he's gonna gank this guy and we can't stop him!”

Dean sinks into a nearby chair and tosses his hands up in exasperation. “Hope you put the kibosh on that.”

“Oh, I did. I, uh, see, he was just screaming and having a full-out tantrum right there and I was so scared, Dean, I just … I…”  
Dean’s head snapped up, locking eyes with his brother.  
“You _just did what,_ Sammy?”

Sam broke the accusatory eye contact, then gave a huge sigh, resigning himself to Dean’s reaction. “I spanked him.”

“You. 

Spanked. 

Him.” 

Dean made the slow, damning statement sound like a death toll.

Sam found his shoes fascinating.

Dean’s voice was low, earnest. “Did you hurt him, Sam?”

“Well, that’s kinda the point of a spanking, isn’t it? It wasn’t very long but I got his attention. The tantrum stopped and he doesn’t think a toddler hunting is a very good idea, anymore.”

“Did he cry?”

Sam thought his brother looked about to cry himself, so he offered “Well, yeah he did, but Dean, Cas cries when you take him out of the bath. He’s okay, I swear it wasn’t that bad. Just a half-dozen swats on his Batman underwear. He rode in my lap on the way home and kept telling me, ‘Sorry, Sammy.’ I made sure he knows he’s been forgiven. Kissed him silly. I put him to bed to let him think about things, said he could get up when you got home. Maybe he did fall asleep.”

Thinking of the indignity of being swatted on one’s Batman underwear, Dean was suddenly on his feet, “I should go check on him,” heading down the hall.

“He’s in your bed!” Sam called after him—then under his breath, “he’s _always_ in your bed.”  
The light was on in Dean’s room (soft Sammy) and Dean approached the miniature little bump in his bed, carefully taking a seat beside it.

“Hello, Dean,” said the bump.  
Sniffle. "Guess you know, huh?”

Dean placed a hand gingerly on the bump’s lower curve. “Yeah, I heard.” Small pat. “You okay, buddy?”

The bump grew a furry head that nodded slowly and then shook back and forth. “No. I mean what _I did…_ ”  
Dean was thrown a moment—he had really expected his little charge to be upset about his first spanking—not feel guilty for needing one. Dean stretched out on the bed next to his little bump, squeezing it to his side.  
“I know what happened, Cas—and it’s over, okay? You acted up—scared the loving Hell out of Sam—and paid your due. It’s over now, buddy.”

The bump squirmed around, rolling over to reveal a tiny, pink-cheeked seraph. “You’re not mad at me, Dean?”

“Nope.”

“Even for what I said?”

“Nope.”

“Even though I ran away from Sam and didn’t come when he called?”

“Nope.”

Dean lifted the toddler onto his chest and green eyes met blue. The two spoke volumes with their gazes—always could.

Still, as Dean cupped a baby-soft cheek in his big, rough hand, he spoke aloud to those eyes.

“But if you do it again, I’ll spank you myself.”


	3. Build-a-Dear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never stepped foot in a Build-a-Bear and like Sam on a library binge, had to research this popular place. I knew Cas would just LOVE it and hope you do too.  
> .............................................................................................................

 

The 67 Impala sailed easily along the Kansas highway, her cargo consisting of two siblings arguing over the radio—and one disgruntled little backseat prisoner.

“Are we almost there?” came the whiny refrain from a squirming young Cas.

“Almost.” The brothers Winchester sounded like a chorus rehearsal.

Cas twisted and kicked against the bonds of his car seat, having now run out of graham crackers--there were plenty of pieces in and around the car seat, just none left in the baggie, which he was waving around the ship carelessly, littering her stern with the remaining crumbs.

The ship’s captain got a bead on the tiny ship-wrecker in his rearview, “You’re not making a mess back there are you?”

“Uuuhhh…”

“What’d I tell you would happen if you polluted my baby?”

“Uh…I havt-a…uuh,” the rest of Cas’ words were unintelligible, as he seemed to have stuffed his mouth with gerbils.

The first mate rounded on the Captain. “What did you tell him, Dean?”

Apparently the gerbils were engaged in a full-on wrestling match with Cas’ little tongue, as more garbled nonsense floated from behind the crew.

“Well, Lil’ Nugget? What did Big Bad Dean tell you would happen?  Huh?”

“You said, uh, you said—I’d  haveta walk home.”

Sam’s forehead suddenly captured a magnificently strong Wi-Fi signal. “Really, Dean? For real?”

But the captain was already chuckling at him and as his mirth flashed across the mirror, reaching the back seat sailor— the ship echoed with peals of giggles, tinkling like wind chimes.

Soon, the brow  of disapproval  lost its signal and the first mate joined in the contagious merriment, his shaggy head turning to take in the tiny crumb-covered pink face, currently in hysterics.

Sam much preferred Cas’ laughter to his tears—there had been far too many as of late.

Everyday frustrations, born of his size and human limitations, drove Cas to frequent meltdowns, as well as the usual toddler stuff; skinned knees, out of juice, or losing at Chutes and Ladders.

And then there were the nightmares. 

If Sam and Dean had had regular day jobs, they wouldn’t.   When Cas woke up from a nightmare, _everyone_ woke up.  One horrible night, the tiny angel was so inconsolable, the child’s decibels raised the souls of a few Men of Letters –at least a sleep-starved Sam swore he saw them lurking in the kitchen, holding their spectral ears.

The Impala finally pulled into port, dropping anchor under a bright yellow sign, inviting the crew to “Build-A-Bear.” 

Size two SpongeBob sneakers kicked excitedly, their wearer eager to set them on the ground. “Wow! It’s just like on TV!”

As Dean removed his seat belt and lowered the gangplank, he took in the storefront.  “ _This_ is where you wanted to go so bad, Cas?”  It looked pretty commercial—and way too colorful an establishment for his liking.  Unbuckling the straps on the car seat, Dean couldn’t even get too upset about the graham cracker carnage, as his adorable little buddy nodded his head with gusto and chirped, “Yes, yes, yes!,” making grabby hands at him.  Dean beamed.

Sam seemed more optimistic about the fun they could have here, not to mention the benefits that Cas having a cozy little thunder buddy could bring to their sleep hygiene.

Dean took Cas’ hand and they all walked into freakin’ rainbow bearland.  “Geez—what’s with the fashion show?” Dean Winchester-- hunter of monsters, demons, ghosts, and unpronounceable things that go bump, found himself gob smacked by a virtual Western Wall of miniature outfits, guaranteed to vote Barbie off the island.

 Sam just shrugged, motioning his jaw towards their little cherub, who was bouncing on his heels (setting off the flashing jellyfish lights) and gazing in awe at everything.

Dean soaked in the kid’s enthusiasm a moment, then giving Cas’ hand a slight tug he lifted his eyebrows.  “Really, Cas? Really?” Cas hopped his answer, making Dean inquire about his bladder.

One bathroom trip later, the trio found themselves making their way towards the first “station,” as Sam looked up at the signs hanging from the ceiling. “Choose me, Stuff Me, Stitch Me, Fluff M—“

“Eat Me”

Dean received the bitchface Sam saved for ruined holidays and jokes about cancer. It worked.

“OK, Nugget, which bear you wanna make?”

Once Cas had made his careful decision, they cruised their way through the stations pretty smoothly.

Reaching the “Dress Me” station, Dean tried to help Cas along, as all two feet of him stood staring up at The Great Wall, his short, pudgy arms crossed and tiny pink tongue playing along the edge of his cheek.  Crouching down beside the toddler, Dean pointed as he suggested, “How about a doctor’s smock? Or the baseball jersey’s cool, or the rock star--look, it’s got a guitar, or tha—“

Dean followed Cas’ teary gaze.

He slid his arm around trembling shoulders; Cas’ tongue was back in his mouth, his chin wobbling.  Panicking, Dean went for distraction. “Or this one, here! What about the fireman, buddy?” But his forced excitement wasn’t enough. Tear-filled eyes remained locked on the pair of fluffy angel wings with their simple white gown and sparkly gold halo.  “Aw, Cas,” Dean dropped his head as Sam cleared his throat and stepped closer to them.  Drawing Cas up into his arms, Dean shushed him through his tears as best he could, sure that kids must cry in this place all the time, but mostly knowing Cas needed to let this out.  When a red little nose began to sniffle into Dean’s jacket , the hunter kept his voice gentle. “You can get the angel if that’s what you want, Lil Nugget.”

Cas drew back a little, tear-stained face looking up. “No, Dean—sniff—I don’t want that one.” As he reached out his arm, Dean followed it and glassy eyes along the wall until Cas hiccupped, “Here, I want this one!”

Dean retrieved the outfit, hanging on a cardboard bear shape, handing it to Cas.

“A lumberjack?  Cas, have you ever even seen a lumberjack?”  Sam ran his fingers through his locks, more as a thinking aide than for vanity.

The little angel considered the red plaid flannel shirt and the blue jeans, unconcerned with the plastic axe sewn to the front.  His shining, blue eyes looked from Sam to Dean, then back to his choice.  “It looks like you.”

The rest of the bear-making process went well until they happened upon “Name Me,” where the Winchesters were made privy to Cas’ ursine lumberjack’s “special attributes.”

Upon learning that his new friend was “handsome, brave, loyal, strong, and funny,” Cas informed The Master Bear Builder that his teddy was JUST like his best friend—and that his name would be Dean.  Cas beamed proudly at his heartfelt yet logical choice.  Sam clapped in agreement and everyone was happy—

[Sound of record needle skidding]

“You can’t name your bear Dean, Cas!  That’s my name and, and, and--he’s your special friend, he needs a special name, like, uuummm…like Rocco or Vader or, or, or—“

“His name is DEAN.”

The hunter looked down to see the absolute definition of stubbornness looking back at him, blue eyes slotted in determination, lips pursed on the usually soft little mouth.  It took everything in him not to laugh, especially since Sam was having some sort of chortling seizure behind his huge hands.

Dean once again took a knee in front of his charge, his hand tousling already tousled black hair.  “Tell you what, Nugget—how about a compromise?”

As the 67 Impala sailed for home, its crew seemed unconcerned by the presence of a stowaway.   Indeed, one swab seemed positively soothed by his furry new mate.   Traffic thinned and Dean chanced a look in his rear view mirror.  “Is he sleeping?”

“Yeah, Sam—he’s good.” Cas was fast asleep, snug in his seat, the flannel-clad bear clutched tightly under his pale chin, moist with dreamer’s drool. 

Beside him, on the bench seat, sat a “birth certificate” with a picture of Cas’ new teddy—and the name “Dear Winchester,” in decorative script.  In the end, Cas had agreed that Dean Bear was too long a first name.

 

The 67 Impala sailed on, familiar land on the horizon.


	4. Anything you Need

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is un-beta'd, both because I threw 4 chapters at DeadMockingBirds in less than a week and also because it was written as a sort of Time Stamp that LizardWhisperer chose to flesh things out with, NOW.  
> Basically, I'm impatient (not with Mock, never with Mock) to share.
> 
> It's been pointed out to me that some readers may be made more curious about the changes in The Winchesters' hunting styles--if so, stick around, as I plan to later Time Stamp a solo hunt--through the lone brother's calls and texts home. Should be fun, but for now...bunker life.  
> .............................

There was no denying that caring for a toddler had changed the brothers’ lives.  Life around the bunker was barely recognizable from the short stays and research sprees for which Sam and Dean has always used the space.  

 Weapons and volatile paraphernalia were kept stored safely locked away or sat up on high shelves, far out of reach of curious—and sometimes knowing little hands.  Regular meals, as well as toy-strewn floors, squeals of joy—or screeches of displeasure were now all part of the little trio’s daily routine.

 

The bunker knew a lot more laughter.

 

Yet the Winchesters were still hunters of the supernatural--and the dangerous.  The family business was no place for the small and unmighty, so in the beginning, Cas was left with various sitters; the nice old lady at the library who shared her life story with Sam or the widow of a deceased hunter, who owed the brothers a favor.  Cas would more or less behave for these people—if not begrudgingly, always miffed at being pawned off.  That was until bedtime, when the little angel turned into the Anti-Christ.  

 

Cas stalwartly refused to go to sleep without Dean or Sam and no amount of cajoling, bribing, begging--or spanking (at the hands of one lady they vowed to never let near Cas again)— could convince him to stay in bed.

Cas was scared—not of things in the dark, though he knew of quite a few that should frighten him. 

 

Cas was scared to dream, plain and simple.  Cas’ dreams always ended in nightmares, starring his caretakers in grave danger,  gruesomely maimed—or simply disappeared from Cas’ reach, taken by a mysterious entity. Unable to save them or beyond desperation to find them, Cas’ tiny vessel flailed and struggled, stressed with fever, calling frantically for the Winchesters—calling for them to  _ get away _ .  Once he reached this state, the child proved difficult to rouse, Sam or Dean shook him firmly by the shoulders and repeatedly called his name.  Gaining consciousness merely transformed the dreamer into a howling, sobbing, clinging—wide awake mess.

 

The first few nightmares, Dean and Sam took turns ministering to Cas’ needs, the off-duty brother trying to catch a few more Zees.  But as these ordeals became more frequent, lasted longer—and the volume went  _ up _ , the hunters found the daunting task was best suited for Team Winchester. 

 

Now the midnight siren blared nearly nightly and the only way to continue hunting while being there for their troubled toddler was to hunt separately.  Team Winchester had to take one for—well, for the team.   Leaving the hardest cases for other hunting teams and even asking for help from fellow monster-killers introduced Sam and Dean to a different facet of the family business. More like owning a franchise.  Neither brother was thrilled with the change, but found their choice no contest.  Neither could see the merit of leaving their little one’s trauma in the hands of acquaintances.  Cas deserved better.

 

Sam drew the short straw for the hunt that weekend so as Cas recovered from his current nightmare, Dean alone walked him around the darkened room, bouncing the tiny frame against his shoulder and murmuring comfort in his ear.  This was the second time that night Dean was awoken by the terror-filled alarm clock beside him. The routine that followed was almost identical to their earlier drill, save for the bath, as Cas’ little bladder had soldiered through. The boy never had accidents during the day, the nighttime leaks occurring only with his nightmares.  It was Dean, not the toddler who held an aversion to using pull-ups, relying instead on bed pads and taking on a good deal of extra laundry.  The hunter had decreed his edict from the start.

 

The first night with little Castiel had been a learning curve.  Pointing out that Cas’ huge white button-down made him look like he’d just “slept with his boss,” Dean then dressed the boy in one of Kevin’s old t-shirts.  While a good deal smaller than either hunters’ tops, all twenty-four inches of Cas still swam inside the prophet’s tee. Furthermore, the shirt's screen-printed theory of relativity prompted Dean to announce that the kid now looked like he’d just “slept with his college professor.”

 

Sam rolled his eyes until his brain came clearly into view.

 

Tucking the tiny angel in on the library sofa, Dean patted his scruffy little head and told him, “’Night, Cas, we’ll figure this out, buddy--we’ll fix this. Now, me and Sam’ll be just down the hall, if you need anything.”   Miniaturized plump lips stretched into the cutest yawn in history, as Cas managed a slurred “OK, Dean. Thank you both for caring for me.”

 

Dean patted the fuzzy blanket down around him. “I mean it, Cas—anything you need,” and he booped the itty-bitty button nose.

 

Sam waved nighty-night to the tiny version of his friend and left the light on, then both brothers headed for their respective bedrooms.  Sam paused, “Anything, Dean?  Cas is so small, he’s gonna need  _ everything _ —you ready to give him that?” Dean leaned by his bedroom door and considered the gravity of his brother’s question.

 

He answered, “Yeah, I am, Sam,” with a single jerky nod.

 

“But--I am  _ not  _ changing diapers.”

 

.............

 

_ Obvious Epilogue _

  
_ Little Cas climbed into Dean’s bed 11 minutes later. _


	5. From the Sudsy Swamps of Dagobah to Famous Amos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to get this up in time for Star Wars Day, but chose the time stamp first and well, SPN was on.  
> Again, beta'd by DeadMockingBirds (I'm starting to believe SHE has the force).  
> ....................................................................

Luke’s X-wing floated languidly amid the murky bubbly swamp, Yoda shaking his plastic head as Luke lost faith in his powers. Yoda raised the ship steadily with one plastic green hand, landing it on the side of the tub—that is, swamp.

“I don’t believe it!” squeaked Luke, his voice sounding younger than his twenty years.

“That is why you fail,” said the brightly colored, cartoonish pirate duck, being guided along on the swamp by hunter’s fingers.

“De-ean!” whined Luke, sounding even younger.

“Take you for a speeder ride, I will,” said Captain Duck, scooping up Luke and cruising around the water-logged planet like a motorboat.

Luke giggled his brains out.

Eventually, Cas’ fingertips lost their smoothness and the bubbling swamp had turned to placid waters--when Dean had the audacity to pull the plug. As Cas watched the environmental disaster of his alien planet swirl down the drain, his lower lip went into hyperspace. This wasn’t Dean’s first rodeo however, and as he set the dripping boy on his feet, the equally-soaked hunter deftly hooded a large, brown towel around the unhappy little face. As he draped the terry cloth like a robe around his shivering charge, Dean announced to the universe, “The force is strong with this one,” in his best James Earl Jones. The tiny cherub’s pout continued to move mountains, but his twitching dimples betrayed his mirth.  
“I’m a Jedi, huh, Dean?”

“Like your father before you, Lil’ Nugget.”

As Dean began to rub the droplets off his padawan, he was suddenly confronted by plump, pruny fingers, spread wide in his face.

Just beyond the jazz hand, Dean found himself locked in a stare of determination. Under such bright blue focused scrutiny, the hunter drew back slightly and blinked, his mind jolted to the distant past.

Dean remembered his own face beaten and swollen, bruised and bleeding. Certain that his cheekbone had been shattered and not too confident about the integrity of his septum, Dean could only wheeze painful breaths and experience the bottomless, gaping chasm in the wake of losing his friends—and his brother--to the averted apocalypse.

Then came the gentle touch, nearly a caress of glowing blue--familiar fingers warm against his agonized brow.

In an instant, Dean’s physical pain was gone.

Little Cas’ pose wavered a bit, as he noticed his towel boy was no longer playing the game. “Dean?”

Shaking himself back to here and now, Dean lifted those amazing little fingers back towards his face.

“Your Jedi mind tricks won’t work on me,” he told the little digits.

“Ice cream before bed,” they demanded in reply, waving ominously at their hostage.

Jedi Masters can and do occasionally get swept off their feet, Cas learned this as Dean plopped his rear back on the bathroom floor, scooping the giggling damp bundle into his soggy lap. “Only if it’s on top of Rebel Pie.”

“Are you two gonna be in here all night?” Sam said.

Dean and Cas both beamed up at Sam and watched as he began slopping up puddles and returning the Imperial Fleet to the mesh bag that hung in the tub.

“We’re gonna have Rebel Pie—with ice cream before bedtime, Sam!”

Sam clearly didn’t share Cas’ enthusiasm, as Dean finished drying off the excited toddler. “And just how do you expect to get him to sleep, tonight?” Sam asked.

“Eh, maybe you can read us that captivating Greek god lore you like so much?”

Bitchface city. “I don’t like it, but we need to understand it, Dean.”

The three headed down the hall to “Cas’ room”, which stored his toys, his clothes—and a child-sized bed that Cas vehemently refused to spend the night in. The brothers continued to bicker without enthusiasm, while Dean picked out a roomy tee for Cas to sleep in, and Miss Suzy Homemaker continued to grumble at his brother, while picking up scattered toys.  
Dean offered Cas a few pairs of underpants, most with super-hero themes, letting the little boy decide—after all, it was his bum. “Excellent choice, Sir,” Dean said, once again showing off his talent for impersonation by mimicking Alfred, as he slid on Cas’ little Batman briefs.

While Dean ignored his grumpy younger brother, Cas was clearly bothered by Sam’s mood. He followed Sam’s tall frame around the small room with his eyes, as Dean dressed him—trying to gain the younger hunter’s attention with reachy hands and cunning glances.

Finally, being rebuffed by his second caretaker proved too much and Cas called out, “Sammy! Stop bitchin’!”

Both hunters appeared to be pinned in place by demons. They mirrored each other perfectly as they looked from their young charge to one another, in mild shock.

Sam began sternly, “Castiel, that’s not ni—“

“You’re not being nice, Sam! Dean said pie and ice cream you’re having a-a-a tantrum!”

Both Dean and Cas folded their arms on their chests and though Sam was not prepared to be taken down a peg by someone in Underoos, the sight proved too damn adorable. Sam chuckled, “Ok. Ok, you’re right. I’m being a—and don’t you say this again young man—I’m being a bitch. Go enjoy your sugar-fest in peace.” He continued to laugh, shaking his head while completing his cleaning spree.

Later, after the eyes-were-bigger-than-their-bellies dessert, Dean sat alone in the library with his brother.

Cas had finally lost consciousness, after an hour of hide-and-seek, airplane rides, and a bizarrely awkward game of Twister. The men took turns kissing the tot’s freshly shampooed hair, a chocolate ice cream mustache sticking to his pillow.

Leaning heavily against the arm of his chair, Dean asked, “So what’s with the game warden routine, huh Sammy? I mean, you’re always a bit of a butt-stick when it comes to lil’ Cas but tonight you went full Mommy Dearest on us.”

Sammy closed his laptop, sighing wearily. “You think this is it, Dean? I mean do you think we’re gonna raise him, like a son? We know he’s done a ton of adjusting, but the times he struggles with the de-aging; all that he was and all that he’s not now—they’re still really, really bad times.”  
Dean nodded solemnly, no argument to be made.

“And the nightmares—those are night terrors and I know most kids grow out of them, but these are different. Toddlers don’t have recurring dreams, Dean, and he wakes up certain that something’s searching us all out, something badder than bad.”

“You don’t think it’s natural for Cas to fear losing us, now that he’s so--vulnerable? If I were him, I’d be worried about being on my own. We’re all the kid’s got.”

“Exactly—but he’s getting more and more specific about the details, and more frustrated too. It’s like he knows what happened to him, it’s right next to him, but he can’t look directly at it.”

“Wow, that’s some trippy-ass amnesia.”

Pushing his laptop aside, Sam opened a steno book, running a finger down a lined page of handwriting. “But his memories seem to break through when he’s the most upset. Last time I woke him up, it was hard to make out through the screaming, but I think he said ‘Amos’.” Sam tapped the note page.

“Amos? Like the famous cookie guy?”

Sam ignored the quip. “Check this out, he was a Hebrew prophet—and a minor prophet at that. Can’t really see him being a threat. The name means ‘strong and brave’ and seems rather innocuous throughout history.”

Dean shrugged. “I’ll ask him about it tomorrow, Sam.”

Sam’s mane shook side-to-side as he held up a warning hand. “Not a good idea, Dean. I mean Cas is petrified of this guy—that’s if I even got the name right. I want answers too, Dean, but I think we need to let the little guy work through whatever process he’s in.”

As if responding to a stage cue, Cas’ desperate cries sounded from down the hall.

“Deeeeeeeeaaaaaan! Saaaaaaaaaammmmy! Nooooo, you gotta ruuuun!”

Both men were on their feet like their chairs were aflame—they again had work to do.


	6. Funny how the Night Moves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I gotta warn some of you fluff-loving snuggle-bugs ('cuz I care about each and every one of you), things are about to get plotty for Lil' Nigget and his hunters--and a bit darker. But at this point, all previous tags stand, nothing new.  
> When things start moving, you may want to hold onto the bar.  
> Once again, beta'd by DeadMockingBirds, my voice of reason in a sea of excessive modifiers.  
> .............................................................................................................................

The first thing Castiel noticed, as he stepped from the shadows of the rank alley, was that he wasn’t small anymore.  He looked down at what had to be two skin-toned oven mitts and clunky clown feet. Feeling nostalgic towards his cheap business wear, Cas ran his elongated fingers down the front of his tan coat.

 

Strangely enough, Cas’ first thoughts were not geared towards how his vessel came to grow, change, and age--but to where his dress shirt and suit may have gotten to all this time, within the large interior of the bunker.  He could have sworn he saw Dean wearing his blue tie once, as he headed out the door as Agent Van Halen (even Cas rolled his baby blues) to investigate a museum mutilation for the fake F.B.I.  But Cas never got the chance to ask Dean about the tie, as he returned late, after Cas was in bed—and that was a nightmare night.

 

_ Nightmare _

 

The word floated by Cas’ nearly six-foot high nose, a whimsical font that dissipated in the air, at the angel’s next breath.

Cas shook his head, as if to clear water from his ears.  “Odd,” he mused.  The strange part was the spectral word hadn’t frightened him, but instead left him with an overwhelming sense of deja vu.

He did, however, reach into his coat, and felt for the angel blade he expected to be in his adult pocket.  It was.

He smoothed the lapel of the tan material back in place and his mind drifted again to the bunker, specifically Dean’s room.  The eldest hunter’s space felt as familiar to Cas as the bunker library, where he had spent countless hours poring over semi-truthful lore.

 

It was in Dean’s room, on the closet door just across from the memory foam, that hung Cas’ rumpled, tan trench coat.  Sometimes little Cas would stand in front of it, looking up at its length, its height and close his eyes, trying to remember its bulky weight, the way it billowed out behind him when he strode with purpose on his vessel’s long legs—the long legs his vessel used to have, that is.

The long legs he now had again.

 

It was late now and the street Cas made his way down was completely deserted, shop windows so dark they mirrored his image as he passed. 

Continuing to take his aging transformation in stride, Cas instead considered the whereabouts of Sam and Dean.

 

**_Nightmare_ **

 

The now boldface script, once more drifted past Cas, completely disembodied of paper or sign.  Again, Cas witnessed its gentle evaporation, curious but not particularly concerned.

Eventually, Castiel made his way to a salty wharf, wondering how he’d arrived at the ocean so quickly, considering he currently resided in Kansas.  Looking over the edge of the wooden pier, the nighttime water looked like an impossibly vast inkwell, lapping at the posts below.

 

All at once, it became windy as all get-out.  Wrapping his coat around himself tightly and squinting into the racing gale, Cas pushed his vessel forward, towards a small shack, singularly out of place so near the water, but with its front door slamming open and closed. 

 

Inside, Cas latched the door tight, leaning against it while he gained his breath back. 

 

“Peculiar,” he said, grainy voice echoing in the cramped space, “My vessel is restored, I’m an angel again—so why am I winded?”

 

**_Nightmare_ **

 

This time, Cas made a grab for the renegade noun, his hand slicing through it in the air, succeeding only in causing its early demise.

 

Cas looked at his hand, an ‘ _ RE _ ’ dissolving on his palm.  “Whose nightmare?  

 

“Where am I? Where’s Sam and Dean?”

 

Before Dean’s name had escaped his frowning lips, Cas was treated to yet another literary fly-by.

 

This time, he pounced on it. Carefully but firmly, Cas cupped his hands around the N and the E.  He drew his face close to the squirming letters, as if they may whisper to him the answers he needed.

 

But before the angel could pose the 'nightmare' a question, a tittering voice made disapproving sounds from just behind his right shoulder.

“Tsk, tsk, Castiel—temper, temper, my boy.”

 

Cas set his captive free to vanish peacefully, as he whirled around on the voice.  The angel was aghast, repelled, and horrified, all at once to see...to see…who the Hell was that?

 

Castiel didn’t know the lithe, tawny-haired adolescent before him (or did he?), thoughtfully chewing on a fingernail in his red high school letter jacket.  He didn’t recognize the sharp, young features or frigid, grey eyes, didn’t recall the timber of his snarky-ass voice, and couldn’t place where he would ever have encountered (of all things) six rings that would draw the envy of any and all winners of the Vince Lombardi Trophy.

 

All Cas knew was he was afraid of him—deathly afraid.  Without a word, the angel scanned the unkempt room, searching for an exit other than the way he’d come in, now blocked by Mr. Scary—but the windows he was sure the cabin had featured were now flat, wooden walls.  He reached for his angel blade—gone.

“Shit.”

 

“Cas-ti-el,” each syllable of his name was spit like a watermelon seed, “Is that any sort of language for a little boy to use?”

For a moment, Cas was overwhelmed with shame, until his hanging head spied black Dockers and he squared shoulders he hadn’t noticed he’d hunched.  “I am not a little boy…?“ Cas felt he ought to know the name.

Mr. Scary’s laugh felt like oily broken glass being crammed into Cas’ ears.  Lord, was he charming.

 

“Funny, _Ca_ sti _ el _ ,” (again with the spitting), “your colored blocks or sippy cup or even your plastic tubby toys might beg to differ,” the teenage creature taunted. 

Cas was stymied—he had all those things, in fact he’d  _ loved _ all those things—as a toddler.  It seemed immature to restate the obvious fact that he was no longer a child, so instead Cas challenged the monster that terrified him.

In his booming angel voice, he demanded, “What do you want? Where is this place?  Where’s De--?” Cas caught the name in his throat, as his fear-factor rose to eleven--nearly having uttered his friends’ names to this...thing..

The monster lit up like a game show contestant. “Aaaahhh, now we’re getting somewhere— _ angel _ .” (saliva city)  “Where.  Are. They?”

Cas backed away shaking his head, panic setting in.  Across the square room, he spotted the stupid word, hopping like a follow-the-bouncing-nightmare.

 

“Cas! Cas, buddy, c’mon!”

 

Hearing Dean’s voice in the same room as this certifiable, yet unknown danger, sent Cas over the precipice of panic and into full out hysteria.

“Noooooooooo! No, Dean! Get away! Run, hide, get away!”

But to Cas’ horror, Dean was there, grappling for dear life on the filthy floor with--something. Dean hollered at his friend. “Cas! I’m right here, buddy! Cas!”

Mr. Scary looked way too amused by the distressed pair. He stroked his jaw like it belonged to a lover and snickered, “Ride ‘em, cowboy! How I like the feisty ones.”

 

As Dean flipped onto his back to better view Cas, the angel finally saw what the hunter was wrestling.  “ _ Nightmare _ ” wriggled and twitched, bucked and twisted in Dean’s steely grip.  “Cas! You gotta wake up, Nugget!  C’mon, I’m here, baby--it’s just a  _ nightmare _ !”

Kneeling on his fancy mattress, Dean found himself with an armful of screeching, sobbing, damp toddler.  Poor little Cas had been gripped so long in the horror of his dream; his Cars pj’s were soaked with sweat, his face a salty, snotty mess and the sheets held the tell-tale odor of ammonia.

Dear the bear had been evicted, unhappily occupying the rug.

“D-d-d-eean, you gotta run!  Get far a-away! H-he’s gonna get yo-o-ouuu,” Cas sobbed out his warning into Dean’s old Pink Floyd t-shirt, all the while latched onto the hunter, like he never wanted him to go.

Dean went through the motions of trying to calm the child down, but knew from experience this was going to take a while.  Still, he never stopped rubbing the hitching back, telling the sticky hair that everything was alright, and swaying Cas softly.

 

Soon, Sam appeared in the doorway, his hairdo on strike, offering Cas’ Superman sippy.  Dean took it, grateful, and then carefully disentangled his wailing cling-on from his band shirt, passing him immediately into his younger brother’s waiting arms.

 

“The bed’s wet,” Dean said.  Sam took over ‘Operation Soothe the Angel,’ while Dean saw to the bedding.

 

While Cas kept crying like a trooper, Sam tried to smooth out the tremors that wracked the toddler’s delicate frame.  “Must’ve been a real scary one, huh, Hun?”  Cas didn’t answer, but nuzzled into Sam’s hair wreck and latched on around Sam’s moose neck, best the tiny arms could.

Dean remade his bed, replacing the requisite pee-pee pad and Sam made his way to the nearest bathroom, his tearful cargo beginning to hiccup and sniffle between bouts of mournful yowling. 

Sam spoke to the toddler quietly the whole way, trying to make a wee-hour bath sound like a pleasant game—and failing badly.  “Just gonna get you cleaned up and dry, you’ll feel better, buddy. Hey, you want bubbles?”  Cas managed a miserable nod against Sam’s neck.

“Ok, Hun, let’s use your Avengers suds.”  Another nod, less noise.  Sam turned on the tap, stopping at the Sharpie line Dean had drawn, marking the temperature their little one liked best.  Crouching down to Cas’ level, Sam unzipped the soiled jammies and ghosted his fingers over the tender tummy within.  At first, Sam got swatted away, but as he squeezed the naked ribs, he was rewarded with some sad laughter.  Cas took a big shaky breath and sighed heavily, an echo from his older self.  “Sammy,” Cas always called him that when he was upset. “Is someone,” (sniffle) “gonna get you a-and Dean?”

 

Sam placed their foreheads together, Cas’ questioning eyes huge up close.

“No, Cas. Nobody’s gonna get us.”

 

The boy was lowered into the perfect temperature, surrounded by super-hero bubbles. But the damn broke anew, as he further asked, “Nobody’s gonna take you and Dean away from me?”

Sam rubbed liquid soap into a washcloth, “Nobody. Not ever, Cas.”

 

“I’d like to see them try,” Dean said, arriving with an armful of tubby time fun that Cas had left in the bath down the hall.  He began plunking ducks and boats into the sudsy sea around his little friend, then wiped at his fresh tears with still dry hands.  Sam carefully scrubbed the perspiration from baby-soft skin, as Dean played submarine—both men on their knees by the tub.  The brothers had this down pat.

 

Cas was so sleepy by rinse-off, that he went bonelessly into his fresh jammies, plopping against Dean’s chest as the hunter zipped him in.  

Big yawn, Dear bear hug, warm, snuggly child. 

Dean kissed the sweet-smelling crown under his chin. “C’mon, Lil’ man, sleep time, it’s nearly dawn.”  

Sam said his good nights, forgoing sleep for an early jog.  Dean shook his head at his brother (whack job) and settled back into his delicious-looking bed, Cas still attached.  Eager to wet his strained throat, the groggy child reached for his sippy cup and sucked it dry, then let it drop to the rug before curling back into Dean’s warmth.

 

The exhausted hunter was losing consciousness, when a Who on a speck of dust just below Cas’ nose muffled, “Not never , _ever_  Dean?”

  
“Not in your wildest dreams, Nugget.”


	7. I'll Call him    George

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE thank you to all who have read so far, left kudos, and wonderful comments.  
> If you asked questions in your comments, you might start getting some answers, here.  
> .............................................................................................................

As he stumbled out of his apartment in a hurried mess, George knew he was late—again.  The short man’s salty hair was too long, his side-burns too fuzzy, and his sunglasses too large for his narrow face.  But he couldn’t solely blame his disheveled appearance on his recent lack of sleep —in reality, George had been unkempt for centuries.

The rumpled man directed his small frame down a narrow alley to a back parking lot tucked behind the building, where he approached a green compact with darkened windows.  As he got in the unlocked car, George murmured a short Latin phrase, pausing to feel its effect, then started her up and headed for the bunker.

On the way there, he fiddled with the radio, adjusted the mirrors and his seat, checked the RMV paperwork in the glove box—and repeated the cloaking spell 6 times.  George felt from the outset this “job” was dangerous, but after last night he was certain of it.  He had dream-walked against his will (perhaps there was some angel left in the toddler after all) and yanked into the angel’s dream, George had come face-to-face with danger personified.  While frantically trying to wake himself up, the old sorcerer had only managed to register that danger wore braces.

Repeating the spell behind the wheel of the car did nothing to increase its strength or longevity, but it gave George something to concentrate on, rather than the loose feeling his bowels made whenever he recalled metal-mouth.

Eons of using his magic for personal gain with no regard for Heaven or Hell—and now George had got himself mixed up with an angel.  Castiel wasn’t just any angel either; he’d tangled with the big, the bad, and the Biblical.  It was Castiel’s history and power that had convinced the small-potatoes magic man to help him—well, those things and the promise that one of his brethren would smite his wrinkled ass, if he didn’t.

The green car pulled off the road, into a shallow ravine, hidden by thick brush—its usual parking spot.   Still some distance from the bunker, the hide-out sat beside a crossroad—and the only roadway exit for the Winchesters.  Relief washed over George, as the Impala rumbled past, its passengers not giving the compact a glance.  He wasn’t late after all and it was no wonder the hunters had slept in—if the angel’s dream had awoken George screaming, surely the kid hadn’t slept well either.

As he shook off the creepy-crawlies left behind again by the nightmare, George pulled the car out of the bushes and headed in the same direction as the classic Chevy.  He kept a bit of distance, but knew the cloaking spell would keep him from being spotted—as long as stayed in their direct vision.  The spell wasn’t infallible and much like a backwards version of the blind-spot in a typical human’s vision, glancing at a cloaked object sideways, particularly when it was stationary, revealed it plainly.  Of course, the moment the observer looked directly at said object—poof—like it was never there. 

George had tailored the incantation to affect only the Winchesters and their young charge, as he wished to avoid having to explain to Geico just how he’d come to be involved in a magical t-bone.

Downtown traffic bustled and George was both relieved and annoyed when the Impala parked in front of a small diner.  Bright, public places always seemed the safest to observe his quarry—though the older man would have enjoyed his own late breakfast.  Instead he was tied to the trio until they were safely behind the wards of the bunker.  Parking three cars back, on the same side of the street, George was once again relieved to see the elder Winchester retrieve little Castiel from the Chevy’s back seat.  If the angel was with them, the sorcerer wouldn’t be dragged along on a hunt.  George had witnessed the turn of the seventeenth century but had _never_ seen anything like the things those men hunted.  More creepy-crawlies.  George reclined his seat, watching the two men reach (way) down and each take one of the little angel’s hands, chatting excitedly to their charge as they entered the diner. 

When Castiel had first found him and requested the spell, George had thought the angel was out of his holy mind.  In the presence of Heavenly grace, thrumming with power, the sorcerer realized two things:  1.) He was outmatched and 2.) George wouldn’t give up that kind of power for anything or _anyone_.

But the angel had been _persuasive_.  Upon being told that an Archangel, with which Castiel was chummy, could remove the magical talents of an age-old sorcerer, leaving him powerless, vulnerable—and mortal— George was convinced to ask no questions and do what the angel said.  But first, Castiel’s grace had to be removed—the spell wouldn’t work on an angel.  The old man flinched when he delivered this news, sure the thrumming power would smite him for even suggesting such a thing.  But Castiel, peculiar thing that he was, looked down at his vessel’s hands, folded neatly in his lap, and said “give me an hour.”  Then he was gone—just gone.

As promised, Castiel returned an hour later, carrying his trench coat over his shoulder and looking tired.  “It is done,” said the former angel.  “Before we begin, I need for you to take me somewhere—somewhere secret.  You can’t tell anyone its location—or who lives there.  It’s imperative you obey me. I may be human, but you know what my brothers are capable of.  And George, there is more I will need you to do.”

Under threat of mortality, George had listened carefully to Castiel’s instructions and had so far carried them out, best he could.  The sorcerer found himself in a dilemma the first time the Winchesters split up their hunting team, leaving a brother behind at the bunker.  George had had to make the executive decision of tailing the taller brother to hunt a Banshee, in hopes the older one stayed put with the kid.

Crap like that had been stressful, let alone having to hightail it more than once, when the green two-door had been spotted sideways by—of all of them—the little angel.  But now George was losing his beauty sleep and looming larger than the threat of being de-sorcerized was this entity—this absolute evil, wearing a teenager.

George hadn’t realized he’d dozed off until he was being dragged roughly from his car, shaking his groggy head.

“Whuzzah?” he asked, as he was slammed up against his own car, a hand clamped over his spell-casting mouth.  George struggled, but Dean had him fast.

The older Winchester snarled in the sorcerer’s ear, “If your name is Amos, I will shoot you in the face—right here, right now!”

“Dean?” Cas’ tiny voice made its way between the grappling men. Having broken free from Sam’s grip, the toddler came closer, taking a careful look at Dean’s captive.

“You know this guy, Cas?  Is this the one you were scared of last night?” Dean gripped the man’s chin, forcing his face towards the angel.  Cas’ eyes widened at what he saw, but he only shook his messy head and backed away, tripping slightly as he ran back to Sam.  Cas jumped into the protection of Sam’s arms, shaking his head against the hunter’s shoulder.  “No, no, no—I wanna go! We all gotta go!”

“Take him home, Sammy!” Dean called to his brother, never taking his eyes off the man pinned against the green car—which he could now plainly see.  “You got this?” Sam asked, wrestling a very distressed little Cas into his car seat.  “Yup.  I’ll call as soon I get some answers.”

As Sam climbed into the driver’s seat, Cas continued to beg and cry, “Sammy!  Dean has to come, too!”

“Dean’s busy, buddy. Hey, hey calm down now. You know Dean can handle himself.” Sam soothed in the rear view, as he pulled away from the curb.

In true toddler form, Cas hollered his favorite word. “No!  He’ll get turned into a frog or a ferret!”

Despite Cas’ obvious distress, Sam had to smirk at that—his brother hated rodents.

Cas’ crying slowed as they drove further away from Dean and his prisoner and closer to the bunker.

“Sammy?  You think Dean’ll kill George?”

Sam braked the car hard enough to make both its passengers lurch forward.  He spun his shoulders around, squaring them at the little boy. 

“Castiel—you got some ‘splaining to do.”


	8. The Sorcerer's Accomplice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the kudos and comments--"The plot thickens."  
> Sorry, but everyone's favorite little angel is safe and resting this chapter out.

George couldn’t speak.  He was heavily gagged with _something_ most foul tasting and reeking of motor oil.  If George couldn’t speak, George couldn’t spell.   If George couldn’t spell, George was defenseless.  A sorcerer from birth, George carried an immortal gene—well, mostly immortal.  While immune to the diseases of aging, his body did age, albeit slowly—he started going grey in his third century.  But George’s body had eventually grown older and weaker and despite still waxing a powerful sorcerer, bound and gagged he sat tame as a poodle.

George couldn’t speak, so why was his captor bellowing questions at him? 

Every time he attempted a mumbled answer through the cloth, Dean would shout “Shut up!” in his face.   At least the questions got shorter.  “Who?  Why?  What happened?”

George had some questions of his own, unlikely to be heard any time soon, like “How did you see me? How do you know an angel?  Who the Hell is Amos?”

Dean stood before the older man, bound to chair in the storage room of a seasonal gift shop.  The hunter had stuffed the car rag in his prisoner’s magic mouth and frog-marched him at gunpoint behind the businesses, kicking in a delivery door marked with a “See you in the Spring” flyer.  Along the way, he searched the shorter man’s pockets for talismans or hex bags.  Satisfied the stalker was clean; Dean used rope to secure his prisoner.

“What are you?” Dean’s voice boomed off the walls of the dark room, as George flinched away from the spittle that landed on his face. 

George mumbled desperately behind his gag, incredulous that the hunter would continue to interrogate him.  Smoke on the Water blared loudly from the hunter’s jacket, providing George a break from the spit-bath.

Dean answered his phone. “Sam?”

“His name is George, Dean—that’s definitely not Amos.  Cas gave him up—but check it out, he denies knowing him.  Says he doesn’t know how he knows the guy’s name, he just does.  And Dean—" Sam was distracted a moment on his end. “Dean, something’s wrong with Cas.”

Dean scoffed at the phone. “I guess you could say that, Sam.”

“No, Dean, I mean beside the obvious.  He’s flipping back and forth between fear and total confusion.  It’s like he’s completely baffled, not even sure what he’s afraid of.  One moment he’s refusing to answer me and next he seems sincerely unable to.”

“Is he upset, Sam?  Like, scared of this guy?” Dean leaned down to meet faded old eyes, “This _George_?”  Dean said the name like it tasted worse than that gag.

Sam paused and Dean could almost hear him shaking his head. “I don’t know, Dean.  All I know is Cas is afraid—but it’s almost like George isn’t as scary as _knowing_ George is. Make sense?”

“Nope, Sam, it doesn’t—But I’m gonna get this POS to make some sense for him.  Did you find the other spell?”

Dean took a few steps away from his captive, speaking low into the phone and writing something down on a receipt from his pocket.

“I’ll call ya back, Sam.  Hey—make sure Cas knows he’s safe, tell him Dean won’t let anyone hurt his Nugget.  Yeah, I know—just tell him, ok?  Thanks.”

Pocketing his phone, Dean knelt before the bound man and pulled out a knife.  George made noise behind the rag and bucked against the ropes.  “Relax, Asshat—if I was gonna kill you, I would’ve done it while you were snoozing.” George visibly calmed, though this new information wasn’t exactly comforting.  The old man watched as Dean used the knife to etch a sigil on the cement floor, checking the slip of paper to assure his accuracy.  When satisfied, he slashed the blade shallowly across his palm, then holding his bleeding hand under George’s elbow, he drew some blood from his captive’s arm, catching the drops and letting them mingle with his own.  George gave a muffled cry of pain, but seemed far more concerned with the Latin Dean was reciting, while wiping their combined bloods in the sigil center. 

Dean checked his notes and uttered the spell again,  including the final word  and both the hunter and the old man felt a wave wash over them, a wave that gave to Dean—and took away from George.  Dean rolled the Latin off his tongue one more time, sans note—this time with exquisite pronunciation.

George’s eyes grew wide and he looked at the hunter with a healthy dose of shock—tinged with a side of resentment.

Dean removed the nasty gag and George sputtered and coughed while the hunter looked on, smirking like he just ate a canary.

“What have you done?” said George, the menace in his voice trumped by the fact he was still roped to a chair.

“Well, welcome, Chatty Kathy.  Talk about anything you want, sing us a song—hey, I know, how about you give me some answers, huh?  Just don’t try to speak Latin—it’ll come out gibberish—and burn on your tongue.”

“Where did you get such a spell?  Are you a sorcerer?”

Dean scrunched his nose. “A sorcerer?  Like Mickey and the mops?”

George shook his head and shot back, “You wouldn’t poke fun if you knew my power.”

“Huh—I figured you for a warlock what with that cloaking spell but you’re not toting the usual accessory pack.  A _sorcerer_ —a sorcerer named George.  That’s better than Disney.”

“What do you want with me?  I didn’t harm you or your brother.”

“No, just tailed our every move.”  Dean folded his arms, pretending to think hard. “Hey, do you have to be in the car to stay undercover—or can you go on walkabout with a Cloak of Invisibility?”

Ignoring Dean’s snark, the sorcerer answered with a question of his own.  “Well, it’s apparent you know how to create the counter- spell—but how did you spot me in the first place?”

“Cas saw you, mostly.  Sometimes we’d catch a glimpse when he pointed you out, but as you know, you’d be gone so fast there was no one to catch up to.  We read about the cloaking spell in an ancient book--got loads of them.”  Dean looked offended by George’s raised brow. “What? I read.”

George grew impatient, raising his voice as he said, “The child can’t see through the cloaking any better than anyone else, and he shouldn’t remember me anyh—“

“Cas has nightmares,” Dean said.  George clammed up and Dean continued, “He’s talked about this guy—Amos, we think.  Last night he woke up crying about a green car that disappeared— _your green car, George_.”

If the sorcerer hadn’t been bound, he’d have fallen off the chair.  “That’s what made you take him seriously, to seek the counter-spell.”

Dean nodded and his demeanor turned deadly serious.

“How do you know Castiel?”

George stammered and looked away.  Dean grabbed the old man by the throat, demanding again, “How do you know Cas?  Did you do this to him?  You bastard, tell me what happened to his grace?”

George was having difficulty breathing.  “I-I-I-c-can’t t-tell. Will k-kill me.”  Dean loosened his grip slightly. “Who?  Who will kill you?”

George inhaled deeply and looked Dean in the eye, but his voice trembled as he answered.

“Archangel.  It’ll take my powers, my immortality.”

Incredibly, Dean started to laugh.  “Cas tell you that?”

“Yes, I agreed to cast the spells…and do other things under the threat of the wrath of his brethren.”

Dean kept laughing, though George didn’t see the humor.  “ _Cas_?  Cas told you his _brethren_ had his back?  It never occurred to you that an Archangel can do what a sorcerer can—and more?”

In all of his hundreds and hundreds of years, George never felt more fury towards another being as he did that moment towards Dean.

Dean continued to laugh, leaning on his knees.

The old man said nothing.

“You got snookered, buddy.  _Duped by an Angel_ —wasn’t that on TV?”

Dean took out his phone, as he let that news sink in to the tired-looking old man. 

“Sammy—how is he?  Well, hopefully we’re gonna fix that.  I’m going to need you to check that dusty book for a page on memory spells.”  Dean tucked the phone between his shoulder and chin, bending to untie George’s feet.  “ Ok, thanks—and Sam?  We’re gonna have company.”

 


	9. Some Choose to Forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hard to say who's having a worse day--Cas or George.

Sam sat across from little Cas, watching the boy fidget. The hunter could plainly see the wrestling match going on within the tiny angel, like he’d been forced into a game of Truth or Dare—except he didn’t know the truth.  Cas’ memories weren’t suppressed and he didn’t have amnesia—Sam was sure of it.  Cas’ memory had been _wiped_ and whatever had been wiped had been terrifying.  Sam got up and sat on the couch with the bewildered child, gently easing apart the worrying little hands.  “Easy, buddy, you’re gonna rub them raw,” Sam kissed each warm palm, “Dean’s coming home soon—and he says he’s bringing some answers.”

“I don’t want answers, Sammy.  I know I kept talking ‘bout the car, but now I don’t wanna know.”  Cas shook his head faster and faster, as if he could jar his confusion out his ears.  Resting a big, steady hand on the tufted head, Sam felt the tremors in Cas’ frame and his heart went out to the little guy.  “C’mere, Hun,” Sam said, lifting the frightened boy to his chest.  “Ssshhhh…Dean’s coming home,” Sam tried again, as this was usually good news, but Cas wouldn’t be soothed. He clung to Sam’s neck and buried his troubled face in the hunter’s shirt, riding out the involuntary body shivers. 

Sam had walked four circuits of the map room, making vroom-vroom sounds on the turns in a vain attempt to gain a giggle from his little cling-on, when Dean arrived, towing the shaggy old man from the diner curb.

“Is he safe, Dean?” Sam clutched Cas protectively.  “That was some fancy mojo he had on his car.”

“Yeah, well that was some fancy counter-mojo you found in that book—gentled him down quite a bit.”

Dean led the man into the bunker by his still-bound hands and guided him firmly into a seat.  “Sam, George.  George, Sam.”  Dean got close to his brother and ran a hand smoothly up Cas’ back.  “Don’t think I need to introduce you and George, do I lil’ buddy?”

Cas kept his face firmly planted in Sam’s Henley, only giving up a shrug.  “C’mere, Nugget,” Dean said as Sam passed him Cas, “Go easy, Dean—I’ve never seen him this confused.”

Dean nodded and stroked Cas’ back as the toddler curled himself in, not so much getting cozy, as getting tiny. “I gotcha, Cas.  Nothing bad’s gonna happen.”

Sam approached George, “So what are you?  A warlock?  A magician?”

The white-haired man straightened up and said, “I am a sorcerer, young man—an original.  Unlike those trained conjurers, I was born a necromancer.”  He deflated slightly, “My body grew old, so I traded bits of my power for…things.  Anyway, in my day that Latin gag spell would never have worked on me,” the sorcerer leveled Dean with a resentful look, “But now spells are all I have left.”

“I friggin’ hate monologues,” Dean stepped closer, Cas still buried in his breast pocket.  “Thanks for the lovely story, George, now—let’s hear the one that starts ‘ _Once upon a time I met an angel’_.”

George looked like Rip van Winkle, before his nap.  He sighed heavily.  “You’re absolutely certain I won’t be smote?”

“If you are, George, Cas here will get someone to resurrect you.” Cas flinched.  Dean patted him and whispered, “It’s ok, buddy.  Nothing bad—I won’t let anything happen.”

George fixed his gaze on the child in Dean’s arms and began to tell the tale of the strange Angel of the Lord who came with requests, then demands—and then threats.  George went on to describe how Castiel had barely hesitated to remove his own grace and allow himself to be de-aged.

“It was the memory spell that was the trickiest—the angel specifically wished to forget me and our interactions.  He did not want to remember the spells—or why he had me cast them.”

Sam and Dean shared a look.  “So Cas doesn’t remember why he’s small because he wanted to forget?” Dean was nonplussed.

“Because he _needed_ to forget, Dean.  How many times has Cas done something crazy because he felt he _had_ to? Because he thought it was right?  Because he thought there was danger—“A bell rang under Sam’s long locks. “He’s protecting us, Dean!”

The older hunter rested his chin on Cas’ sweaty head, “What are you hiding, buddy?  Don’t you know by now we can always help?”  The sweaty head didn’t answer.  It couldn’t.

Sam decided to ask the man who could. “Tell us everything else you know, George.  _Everything_.  No detail’s too small.”

George explained Castiel’s instructions to follow the brothers, whenever they left the bunker. “The angel never said so, but I imagine this place to be heavily warded—I saw runes and sigils on the entrance.  So, I’m guessing whatever he had me watching out for could not harm you here.”

“And what was that?  What were you surveilling?”

George looked at Sam in earnest. “I don’t know, honest. He said it wouldn’t be anything you were hunting, that it would _find you_ —that if either of you tried to hunt it, you’d be gone—in an instant.”

Dean spoke up, “So what were you supposed to do if this ‘something’ showed up? Warn us?”

“Oh no!  The angel made it clear you were not to know, under any circumstance!  I’m only telling you now because I learned his threats were hollow. No, no—if it showed up, I was to tell _him_ ,” the old man gestured towards Cas with his bound hands.

Sam and Dean shared another look.

“I told you he’s protecting us,” Sam said, disappointed to be right. 

“So George, how was telling Cas about this ‘thing’ going to help?  He doesn’t remember you, hadn’t planned to warn us—and he’s like, three—what the Hell could he do?” asked Dean.

The sorcerer again seemed sincere, if not perplexed.  “I don’t know what he could do as a child, but I wasn’t only to warn him, I was to immediately restore his memory.”

“Wait—you can do that?” Sam was excited, “What else can you do?”

George jutted his chin in Dean’s direction.  “If your brother gives me back my Latin, I can age that little vessel back into a tie and stubble.”

Sam crouched in front of the older man and produced a knife.

“I-I-I said I can help you two!  I can remove the spells!  Please, don’t—“

Sam cut the ropes from around George’s wrists, as the sorcerer breathed a sigh of relief and rubbed at his numb flesh.

“Get to work,” said Sam.  But as George stood, Dean held up a hand. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down!  Let’s start with Cas’ memory,” Dean bounced his sweet little bundle, “then we’ll ask Cas what to do next.”

Sam recognized the quiet panic in his brother.  He mirrored Dean’s raised hand with his own.  “Ok, ok, Dean. One thing at a time, it’s ok.  Nothing’s gonna change—just yet.”

Dean still looked stricken, but lowered his hand to embrace his Lil’ Nugget, nodding slowly.

“Oh, that’s right,” George smoothed down his snowy hair, “The angel insisted I add it to the Latin—I cannot re-age him without his consent.”

Sam and Dean, again with the look.

“Oh, oh, oh, I forgot--one more thing,” George snapped his fingers, “The angel also wanted to forget anything to do with someone called ‘Amos’.”


	10. Thanks--but no Thanks for the Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, Mock--AGAIN. LW L'sY
> 
> And thank you all for your kudos and comments--you make me smile like Nugget in the bathtub, getting my toesies tickled!
> 
> Enjoy.

The Men of Letters bunker held many rooms, the usual household spaces—and a few surprises.  While the library and map room would impress a Harvard scholar, those early Men of Letters built one area not to impress—but to conjure, to experiment, and to contain.  Still, the dungeon was impressive, in its own right.

As George was led inside the windowless room, flanked by both Winchesters, the sorcerer took in his surroundings, awed—and a with a smidgen of nostalgia.  “Not quite like they used to make them; more hooks, more fire—that chair looks a little cushy—but it’s still good to be in a dungeon again,” George said with a smile.

“Again?  So is this like ‘Old Home Week’ for you?”

The old man traced the runes carved into the edging of the mahogany desk before looking at Sam.  “Yes—I mean, no.  You see, many, many years ago, I worked in one, where I was in charge of—“

Holding little Cas against his chest, Dean cut the story short.  “Do you have many friends, George, or did you talk them all to death.”   It wasn’t a question.

“If you remove that gagging spell, I can say the words you want to hear—and get back to _my life_ ,” said George, gesturing towards Cas, who lay quietly against Dean, “the one I had _before I met him_.”

Dean squeezed his little one more securely, “This isn’t his fault—he only asked you for help because he had to.”

Sam stepped between his brother and the sorcerer, as the shorter man raised his voice, “ _Asked me for help_?  He used me!  He lied, he manipulated and threatened me—and now this Amos,” the toddler whimpered into Dean’s shirt, “this, this _thing_ has seen me!  It looked right at me, it knows—“

But Dean ignored the rest, as he stepped away from the raging man, far more concerned with his trembling little buddy.   “Ssssshhh, it’s ok, Nugget—he’s just talking ‘bout your dream, it’s not real.”

Sam settled George down with one sentence, “Look, we’ll give you back your spell-binding, you give Cas back his memory—and we go finish this thing—deal?”

George nodded, beckoning to Dean, “I apologize. I hold no grudge against the child; you’re right—he’s no longer the angel who fooled me.”

Dean moved in closer but continued to stroke and sway Cas, who whimpered constantly.  Sam got to work drawing a sigil with a wide Sharpie, only slightly different from the one Dean had etched at George’s feet earlier.  He held out a knife towards George.  “Blood—yours first.” 

The old man complied hesitantly, deciding to reopen his arm wound and collecting the droplets in his hand.  Dean’s turn proved a bit more awkward, as his cling-on refused to budge, but the hunter managed to squeeze some drops from his hand into George’s.

“Read this— _exactly_ , Dean,” Sam said, thrusting a notepaper at his brother.

Dean grinned proudly, “No problem, Sammy—I already know it by heart.”

Sneering at Dean’s glee over steeling his Latin, George crouched and made a bloody bullseye in the sigil.

As Dean finished the ancient words, he again felt a sensation, this time of loss, while George rose to his feet and confronted both brothers.  “What’s to prevent me from cursing the lot of you and walking out your front door?” 

 

_CLICK_

George drew back from the barrel of Sam’s gun, levelled to permanently open the sorcerer’s sinuses—easy, breezy, Japanesey.  “O-oh, I see.”

“Or we could go with your plan—but who’s to say Amos isn’t waiting on the other side of that door?”  Sam gestured with the gun.

Cas began to cry and Dean shushed him gently, “Shh, easy, Nugget—who the Hell is this guy?  Voldemort?”  Dean’s questions were aimed at the universe.

George raised both palms in surrender, “Ok, ok—I’ll help your little friend.  And please put that away, my healing abilities are limited. “ He turned to Dean, “Do you really think you can defeat A—er, that thing?”

Dean had failed at calming Cas down, as the toddler was openly sobbing now, soaking the crook of Dean’s neck.  “We’re sure as Hell gonna try.” 

George approached the wailing Cas and placed a hand on his back.  “Son, I—“

“He’s not your son,” Dean growled.

George conceded, with a nod.  “Castiel, please calm down, my boy.  I’m going to help you remember—remember whatever’s frightening you and why.”  

Cas wiped his eyes against Dean’s cotton shirt, then considered the short old man, shaking his head. “I don’t wanna know—don’t think I’m supposed to.” 

Sam spoke up, “Cas, buddy—something’s gotta give.  This thing is big is scary—we get that—but we’ve met a _lot_ of big and scary, the three of us—and sent them running.  Why not this one?”

Sam lifted the little angel off his brother’s dampened chest and cuddled him to his own, questioning those impossibly blue eyes.  “ _Hic_ , it’s n-not the same, Sammy.  I don’t know why and I’m not lying—I’m not, Sammy—don’t b-be mad, please.  All I know is we gotta run.” 

Sam wiped at the reddened little face with his sleeve, “Ssshh, Hun.  When have you ever known the Winchesters to run from anything?”

Cas lowered his tear-soaked lashes, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Stepping close, Dean said low, “Nugget, buddy, all the time we spend on research, everything we learned from our father—from you—you gotta know our worst enemy’s the _unknown_.  Help us help you, Cas— _trust us_.”

They all waited while their tiny companion mulled over these facts.  Cas was overwhelmed with feelings; fear, confusion, doubt, worry—but above all, a profound sense of loyalty.   Even while drowning in a sea of uncertainty, Castiel had always counted on the good ship Winchester, tossing out brightly colored floaties (sometimes, little Cas needed floaties in the deep end) and offering lifelines when all seemed lost.

Cas looked between the brothers, then to the older man and said, “Restore my memory, George—I need to know.”

Some spells are simple, a few select words of Latin, a special trinket, a sigil, some blood and _wham, bam, ala kazam_.   Some spells are not—requiring elaborate recipes, disgusting ingredients—and willing participants.

As George gathered his needed supplies, more than once comparing the bunker’s inventory to a “Sorcerer’s Gas-n-Sip,” Cas helped the old man.  The toddler followed at first, but then lead the magic man to his next ingredient, having to ask Sam to open the safe for a couple of volatile ones.   George tried not to acknowledge the arsenal he glimpsed behind the locked door, instead employing his temporary apprentice to carry two colored bottles and an innocuous-looking stick.

As the ingredients went one-by-one into a brass bowl, the sorcerer helped Cas stir them with his special stick, the tot taking in the process with wide, curious eyes.   Watching the scene, neither brother needed to express how cute they looked—despite George handing little Cas a desiccated finger to add to the punch.

“There, my boy—that should do it,” George said, lifting Cas down from the table, “Just one more ingredient—“  George crouched low to speak to the child, “We’re gonna need a little blood—from you.”

As George picked up the knife off the table above him, Dean stepped in.   “Whoa, whoa, hang on a sec, you can’t just cut him. I'll do it,”  Dean took hold of the knife, “Ok, Nugget?,

Cas reached up at Dean with familiar grabby hands and first tucking the knife in his pocket, the hunter obliged.   “Ok, Dean, you do it,” Cas said, bravely thrusting out a hand.

“You sure about this, buddy?”

Sam had hung back from the mini drama but now he suggested, “You said you can heal, right George?  Small things, like a cut?”

“Yes, yes of course,” answered the sorcerer, fully aware he was reassuring the older hunter and not his younger charge.

Dean made the cut carefully, but quickly, wincing when Cas gave a yelp.  After squeezing a few precious drops into the bowl of Cream of Creepy , Dean pinched the injured little finger, stopping the blood while he kissed it and declared it “Aw better.”

George’s eyes were closed as he recited something that sounded to Sam like it was older than Latin.  The sorcerer’s voice rose, the incantation becoming frenzied.   Still speaking, George opened his eyes and dropped a lit candle in the brass bowl, which set off a bright flash and a rush of invisible power through the dungeon.   George staggered to the nearby chair, exhausted and wind-blown from the blast of magic.

“You ok?” asked Sam, stepping to the older man's side and offering him water.

George took the bottle gratefully, nodding while he took a long pull.

Sam waited, then asked, “Well, did it work?”

Dean looked down at Cas, his tiny vessel hanging limp in the hunter’s arms, then sharply up at George.

“It fucking better have.”


	11. Ask Me no Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do like a good cliffhanger (you may have noticed) but thought you all deserved an early start to the holiday weekend (US).

Six-four, six-one, and five-four—the three men stood tapered in height, gazing down at Cas, unconscious on the couch.  Sam and Dean had tried several times to wake the toddler, but his eyes remained closed, his breathing even and peaceful.   Occasionally, he nuzzled deeper into his favorite fuzzy blanket and let out a soft sigh—blue eyes at rest behind relaxed lids.

Dean smoothed Cas’ unruly hair off his high forehead, “You know, Sam, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to wake him—I haven’t seen him sleep this deeply in months.”

Before Sam could respond, George spoke, “That’s the trouble with memory spells—they make swiss cheese out of the psyche—especially when they’re made so selectively.”

Sam turned to face the shorter man, “The spell caused Cas’ nightmares?” 

“Yes and no—you see, the spell was designed to completely erase the memory. It was created in the twelfth century for a grieving widow to forget her life-long love.  Starting from a clean slate brings its own challenges, but using the spell to punch holes through some experiences—and hold onto others, poses some hefty drawbacks.  The subconscious turns waking moments of déjà vu into vivid, confusing dreams.  Castiel’s lost memories were terrifying, so he had nightmares.”

“Makes sense, but George—how did _you_ see Cas’ nightmare?”  Dean asked the question, but both brothers waited on the answer, like they were on Family Feud.

The old man wrung his old hands together and considered each brother with old, grey eyes.  “That’s the no part—I honestly don’t know.  At first, I thought I was dreaming of the angel, but then that Amos thing looked at me and—it wasn’t a nightmare.  I could _feel_ its evil, its power—I could feel it in my magic.  Amos is very, very real, gentlemen.”

“Can you dream walk? “  Sam knew he was grasping at straws, as George answered, “No,” then regarded the sleeping child, “But he could—before he gave up his grace.”

Little Cas stirred in his fuzzy cocoon, stretching his arms across the couch cushions and performing one of his adorable yawns.  He smacked his dry lips a few times, as his eyes fluttered open.  “Hello, Dean.”

Dean knelt close, “Hey, Nugget. How ya feeling?” Calloused fingers walked up Cas’ chest and booped his nose.

Cas gave a reflexive giggle, then his young face grew darkly serious, “Tell me you haven’t left the bunker—any of you?”

“We’ve all been here, waiting for you to wake up.  It’s ok, Nugget—you’re safe.”

Cas sat up, wriggling free of his nest, “No, I’m not,” Cas planted his face in his little hands, shaking his head, “None of us are safe!”

Treading cautiously, Sam asked, “Cas? Do you remember George? Asking him for help? Do you remember—“the hunter winced before he said the name, “Amos?”

When Cas looked up, sharply, his bright blue eyes were wet.  “I remember everything, Sam.  And _this_ wasn’t supposed to happen!“ The tiny boy turned on the sorcerer, “You weren’t supposed to get caught, George!  All you had to do was watch and not be seen!  This is a disaster—he’ll find us all!”  Cas had jumped to his feet on the sofa cushion and stood nearly eye-to-eye with the much older man he was bawling out.

Sam and Dean’s jaws hung loosely.

“And just what are you going to do to me for getting myself caught, eh?  Send your _brethren after me_?  Word is you’ve got no one in your corner but these two!”

Dean placed himself between the screamers, squarely facing George.  “That’s right, George—he’s got us.  And this day’s got me in a smiting mood.”

  George backpedaled—was he just talking smack to a toddler?

Lifting up a still-smoldering Cas, Dean asked, “Who wants juice, huh?  I could use a drink,” carrying the little angel away from his source of anger with a playful bounce.

Sam and George watched the pair head into the kitchen, Cas’ sneakered feet kicking his displeasure.  “Can he not see that you two would eventually catch me?  _The Winchesters_?”

Sam stared after Dean and Cas another moment, then answered the old man, “Believe me, George, Castiel _knew_ we’d find you.  It’s himself he’s bent up about—and us, not you, George.  Cas has been fighting our help since before he was little.”

 

Cas sat at the metal kitchen table, nicely sipping his juice.  Gone was any trace of the Tasmanian Devil in Cas clothing that had raged from his sofa soapbox.  Dean sat across from his little friend, spinning an open beer bottle by its neck—and thinking.  He took a pull off the amber bottle, swiped his mouth with his cuff and said, “So—you gonna tell me what’s up, Nugget or are you gonna nurse that O.J. all day?”

Cas put down his Tigger cup and wiped his mouth exactly as Dean had, “It’s complicated, Dean.”

“Well, how about you start at the beginning?”

Cas took another slow sip, then stared down Dean and said, “That was a long time ago,” looking and sounding so close to his adult version that Dean did a double-take.  “Har-har, wise guy.  You know what I mean.”

The stare didn’t falter, “You and Sam are in danger, Dean.  The more you know, the greater the danger.”

“We talked about this, Cas—the more we know, the better we can fight.  Otherwise, how can beat this thing?”

“You can’t.”

Dean took a drink, “There’s always a way, Nugget.”

“Not this time, Dean.   You can’t win—I need you to believe me.  You and Sam _cannot_ leave the bunker.”

Sam entered the kitchen, promising a meal to George, who followed, looking drained.

Dean got up and grabbed three more beers, offering two to the other men.  “Cas thinks we shouldn’t leave the bunker, Sammy.”

“You _can’t_ leave the bunker!” Cas plunked his cup down a little too hard.

“Why’s that, Cas?”

“Sam, please listen—it’s too dangerous.   And please make Dean stay.”

Sam let a chuckle escape, as he retrieved sandwich fixings from the fridge.  “You think I can _make_ Dean do anything?”  But Sam had been caught in the blue-eyed tractor beam of desperation.  “Still, it’s not a bad idea for now, til we figure all this out.”

“No.”

Everyone turned to Dean, George reluctantly forsaking his sandwich.

“What?  I said ‘no’ I meant ‘no.’ I’m not hiding out from…whatever.   I got a life and a lot of it’s out _there_.”

Cas burst into tears—big ones that dripped off his chin.

“Aw, c’mon, Cas—don’t,” Dean reached to pick the toddler up, but for the first time since he de-aged, Cas pushed the hunter away.  The little angel was beside himself, clutching his head and tugging at his hair.   Dean still stood with his hands out, stuck between shock and rejection—but snapped out of it when Cas began banging his head on the table.  “Hey, hey, Nugget, no,no,no,”  Dean wrapped his arms around the bobbing head, clutching his little friend against him.  Sam was there, doing the same, until Cas stopped struggling and just cried.

George spoke, “Oh, dear me—the child remembers the nightmares—he remembers that thing and all it may have said, done— _showed to him_.”

“I thought you said his dreams were memories?”  Sam asked, rubbing the red spot on Cas’ brow.

“They are—but, oh what memories this child must have.”  George wiped the lettuce from his hands, “Let’s take a look, shall we?  It won’t hurt him.”

The brothers shrugged—what was there to lose?

George took a seat beside Cas, lifting the sniveling boy onto his lap.  Resting both his hands on chaotic hair, George murmured Latin just above his breath, then whispered something in Cas’ ear.   Sam and Dean watched while George closed his eyes and Cas calmed under the spell.  Then both hunters jumped as Cas screamed and George let out a shriek to match.   Dean started forward, but both cries ended abruptly when George removed his hands from Cas’ head.  Their little friend seemed fine—the sorcerer appeared to have soiled himself.

Beyond embarrassed, George showered, and much to his dismay, was given a right-sized pair of jeans—and a t-shirt boasting the “Adventures of Trigonometry.”

Sandwiches finally devoured, the trio and they’re ill-dressed guest settled in the library.  Sam showed George the crumbling book of incantations they had researched, while Dean watched Cas play with Legos, at his feet.  “Ah, here's the malicious spell you used on me this morn—what!  It wears off?”  Dean just shrugged at the sorcerer and turned his attention back to his little buddy’s brick bi-plane.  George declared Dean “Incorrigible!” then moved on to the steno notebook he’d been offered.  Sam kept his voice low, as he explained what he had found researching Amos, but Cas still piped up, “His name isn’t really Amos, Sam—you’re wasting your time.”

Sam was across the room in two strides, clutching Cas by both his upper arms.  “What’s his name, Cas?  Tell us, who is he really?  What are you hiding?”  Cas could only stammer and look away.   Dean came to his rescue,“Take it easy, Sammy, he’s been through a lot today.”

But Sam persisted, “We know that you know, Cas—just tell us. Tell us!” For the fiftieth time that day, Cas cried.  “Crying doesn’t help us, little man.  You wanna cry?  Huh?  Here—“Sam turned Cas’ tiny frame and gave him a firm whack on the bottom.

“ _Sam_!”  Dean was on his feet, snatching the little angel from his heated brother and ending the interrogation.

“I know you’re afraid for him and we do need the truth, Sammy--but not like this. “

 Little Cas fastened himself to Dean and Sam felt like a towering jerk.  He moved quickly to rub Cas’ trembling back, “Sorry, buddy. I’m so sorry.”  Sam kissed the dark, shaggy crown, telling it, “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Hun—you know that, right?”  Cas nodded, his cheek securely glued to Dean’s shoulder, two fingers suctioned deep behind pink lips.  Normally, one of his guardians would slide them out and chide the toddler about germs, but neither seemed willing to disturb this small comfort, for now.

George sat in silence, giving the trio’s intimate moment due respect. 

Eventually, the day’s trying events and the expenditure of a bucket and half of tears caught up with the angel and he snored peacefully by Dean’s ear, with only the occasional snuffle.  Moist fingers hung loosely from Cas’ rosy little mouth, while Dean’s shoulder became saturated.

“I’m gonna put him down, Sammy—he needs his rest. Heck, we all need our rest—something big’s coming. I can feel it.”  Without hesitation, Sam followed his brother and his precious cargo. “I’ll come with you.”

Once Cas was tucked snugly in Dean’s bed, the brother’s sat down with George, the old man sipping a hot cup of tea.   Not willing to risk another Def Con 5 angel meltdown, Sam and Dean offered haven to George, whom they firmly believed was in this mess up to his grey eyeballs. 

“Cas isn’t gonna—or can’t fess up, George, so tell us—what did you see?”

The old hand shook, as it clumsily placed the teacup in its saucer, as the old voice shook to match, “It was dreadful. Horrific. Gruesome.  Ghastly.  Vile.  Hideous.  Revolting—“

“What are you, a thesaurus?”

“Dean, hear him out.”

George looked from one brother to the other.

 

“It was the two of you.”

 

 


	12. Dean's Scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a blast writing this chapter--hope it's as much fun to read.  
> It fulfills a fantasy of mine and hopefully stuffs some logic into a gaping plot hole that's been hanging over SPN since Season 2.  
> And Nugget gets a little break to be his adorable Nuggetty self.  
> As usual, thanks to Mock and all of you who have given their love and support--but especially to Mock for cleaning up my messes.  
> New tags.  
> LW  
> ...........................................................................................................

It was a most unusual night in the bunker—Cas slept.  Sam and Dean did not. Bathed in sweat, each brother awoke shocked to find themselves whole and unharmed; a fact that did little to assay the images George had shared.  The horrors the old man described trumped all the abominable things the brothers had witnessed on the hunt—and even during their stints in Hell.  Finally, the boys opted to stay up and reluctantly talk about it.  “Jeez, Sam—this sucks,” Dean said, pouring them both black coffees, “we’re both skeeved out just _imagining_ our torture—George says Cas has actually _seen_ it.”

Sam sipped at the steaming mug, “So at least now we know the memories behind his nightmares.” He blew on his coffee and shook his uncombed head, “Poor kid.  Told you he was protecting us.”

“So if Amos is the douche who showed Cas _Nightmare on Winchester Street_ , you think he can really do that to us?”

“Cas does, Dean.  I’ve seen him protective before, but this guy’s got him acting like a two-foot Secret Service agent.”

“Morning, gentlemen.”  George shuffled into the kitchen, obviously still exhausted and made a beeline for the coffee pot.

“Tough night, George?” Dean watched the older man over the brim of his mug.

 “The toughest.  I thought the teen devil was bad, but the things I saw in that tormented little head,” George shivered inside Kevin’s heavy flannel pajamas, “let’s just say both you boys are nicer to look at on the outside.”

The brothers each echoed the sorcerer’s action, recalling detailed accounts of their entrails and other viscera hanging from their live bodies. 

George took one sip of his coffee, teetering, then asked, “Would either of you be offended if I went back to bed?  Once you reach four hundred, I’m sure you’ll understand.”

“We’re not going anywhere, George, get some rest—you _look_ four hundred today.”

George was too tired to mind Dean’s jab and simply excused himself.  On the way out, the yawning man nearly tripped over little Cas, who came bouncing into the kitchen, Dear bear under his arm. 

“Morning, Nugget.”

“Good morning, Dean.  Good morning, Sam,” Cas practically sang as he clambered onto a chair.

Dean rubbed the angel’s head, “Someone’s in a good mood.”

“I am, Dean.  I had a _good_ dream last night!”

Sam poured Cas some juice, “That’s great, Hun.  Dean says you slept the whole night, too.”

Cas’ tiny voice echoed from inside his juice cup, “Uh huh.  And I dreamed we were all on a boat and the water was all smooth and there was a dolphin we could ride.”

Dean beamed, “That’s great, buddy.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a grateful look, then Sam said, “Cas, I think Dean and I caught your nightmares—we understand why you’ve been so scared now, Hun.”

Cheerful Cas faded, like that, as serious Cas arrived and locked eyes with Sam.  “Then you understand the danger you’re in—why you can’t leave the bunker.”

“We’ve got to leave some time, Cas.  We went out for breakfast yesterday because we’re low on groceries—and now we’ve got George to feed.”

“No, Dean—we have to stay here.  The bunker’s warded, protected—I safeguarded it against him.  Amos can’t see or feel us here.  I sent out a subconscious signal, when I remembered him in my sleep—he dream-walked, finding me through my fear—and showing me things.  But he couldn’t touch me—or see where I am—the wards prevented him.”

Hearkened by Cas’ sharing, Sam pressed, “But George said your nightmares were from your wiped memories poking through.  You’re saying, your dreams about Amos were real?”

“Some—it’s hard to say. They were mostly confusing—but he was always there," the little angel hugged his bear to his chest, tightly,  "He scared me a lot, but I didn’t know why.”

“And now you do, Hun.  Cas, we can help but you gotta give us more info—you know if you don’t, we’ll just go find it.”

“Noooo!” Cas was crying again, dammit.  “No, no, no!”

Before Cas could hurt himself, Sam scooped his little friend up into a hug, feeling low for setting him off again.  As his brother calmed down their charge, Dean emerged from the fridge with a dried up piece of pizza and a moldy block of cream cheese.  “Chinese delivery, it is!”

…………

The Chinese food was delivered to the bunker door in a plain, brown sack—but smelled like rainbows and soy sauce.  Dean paid the driver, then bolted the door to Cas’ satisfaction. “George doesn’t know what he’s missing.”  Opening all the white and red cartons, The Winchesters quickly got down to emptying them.  Even little Cas, drawn by the magical aroma, came to the table, kneeling on a chair while he reached for something fried.  The boy had recovered from his earlier hysterics, but his guardians still found it disturbing how easily he was triggered.

“If we could only take those awful images away from him,” Sam said, clacking away at his keyboard.

Dean watched Cas stuff a whole chicken finger in his mouth and swore the inside must be big as the Tardis.  He continued to marvel at his little one, but told his brother, “Don’t you think he’s had enough taken away from him? Besides, we’re not gonna mess with his memory again and it might need to be taken out by the person who—“ Something pivotal occurred to Dean which he quickly shook out of his head.  “Besides, Sammy, as long as we live smart and keep safe for now, Cas knows nothing’s gonna happen to us—don’tcha, buddy?”  Cas got a playful noogie for emphasis. 

Sam knew his brother better than a Google search and easily caught Dean’s bobble—it would be harder to get him to fess up to what caused it.

 “Dean, weren’t you the one who was all ‘we’re not gonna hide in a damn hole’?” Sam leaned across the table beside his computer, making eye contact with his older brother.  “What’s up with you?  You got an idea you’re not sharing with the class?”

Dean looked abruptly away, drumming fingers loudly on the map table.  With his mouthful of Chinese, Cas had climbed down from his chair, skootching around the table legs on his knees.   The toddler looked up and said, “Pwease shtop dat bangin’, De’n,” the chicken finger still plugging up the Tardis.

Dean stopped the noise, now aware of his failed attempt to hide…something.

“I know you can’t keep a secret that might help Cas, Dean.  All right—out with it.”

Dean sighed, laughed nervously and—was he blushing?  Cas scaled the older hunter’s legs to land in his lap long enough to snag a piece of broccoli, then, like a groundhog, vanished back under the table.

“Missouri,” Dean said.

“Missouri?  Dad’s old friend?  Dean, from what you’ve told me she isn’t available these days.”

“Yeah, well about that, see—I, um, may have stretched the truth a bit, Sam.”

Dean was rewarded with a deluxe bitchface, complete with sky-high brows and a scoff of derision.

“Why, Dean?  We could have used her help so many times—maybe finished cases sooner, saved more people!  Why would you lie?”

Dean scratched the back of his head, uncomfortable as all Hell.  “I’m sorry, Sammy, she just—I don’t know—creeps me out.”

Sam wasn’t having it.  “That’s ridiculous, Dean—you’re hiding something.  Why don’t you like Missouri?  Do you resent her because she knew Dad?  Why, Dean?  Tell me there’s a good reason we haven’t used a genuine psychic’s help—what, are you afraid of her?”

Dean’s head snapped up like someone had blown a horn in his ear.  “No!  What makes you think I’m afraid?”

“Well, that reaction for one thing,” Sam answered and smirked at his brother. Yahtzee.

Sighing, Dean said, “It’s freakin’ embarrassing, Sammy.”

“Can Missouri help Cas, Dean?  If she can, what’s a little embarrassment?”  His voice softer, Sam tried to coax his brother.

Dean watched Cas bounce around the room on his sock toes, crunching on a water chestnut.  Remembering his little friend's grief-stricken face as the child recalled the ghastly, gruesome things he had witnessed, Dean loosed the hold he’d had on his secret.

“It’s that goddamn spoon of hers, Sammy,” Dean said, looking his younger brother in eye and daring him to laugh.

But Sam just looked confused.  “The wooden spoon she always threatening to hit you with?”

“Yeah, that one.  See, I got on her nerves a lot and she like—saw all.  Hell, I couldn’t even think crap about her, without hearing about that freakin’ spoon.”  Dean craned his neck to check on Cas’ whereabouts and found him driving a Hot Wheels over the arm of a reading chair in the corner. 

“So, you see Sam, I finally pissed off the psychic lady good, just before we went to check out the ghost in our old house—remember?  I said some snarky-ass thing about her sensing how many donuts she’d have for lunch, when I got a face full of fuming Missouri.  I guess I offended her or something.”

Sam snorted and shook his head.  “Ya think?”

Cas was vroom-vrooming his way back across the carpet, as Dean told the story faster.

“So, we’re a quarter inch from Eskimo kissing and the psychic psycho grabs my chin and tells me, ‘Other people’s problems are not a joke, boy—and neither is my freakin’ spoon.  Here, child—take a look.’ And she touches the top of my head and I see—“ Dean stops talking and begins an intense study of the Baltic Sea, just to the left of his elbow.

“What did you see, Dean?  What did Missouri show you?”

Dean struggled to look at his brother, then met Sam’s gaze through his lashes, fully ashamed.

“I saw her sp-spank me.  You know, with that spoon,” Dean spoke like he was in a confessional and quickly dropped his eyes again.

Sam laughed.  Sam burst into uproarious laughter, rocking back in his chair and clapping his hands.  After a required inhale, Sam laughed some more, slapping his big mitt on the table and pointing at his thoroughly unimpressed brother.

Dean opened his mouth to tell Sam off, only to be beat to the punch.

“That’s not funny, Sammy!” Cas folded his short arms, giving Sam his best icy glare.  “Spankings hurt.”

Any other subject and Cas’ display of grumpy toddler power would have only sent Sam back into hysterics, but the little boy knew how much spankings hurt _because_ of Sam—and this sobered him up, but quick.

Straightening his hair and clearing his throat, Sam said, “You’re right, buddy, you’re right.  There’s nothing funny about a spanking.  I’m sorry, Dean.”  Sam worked hard at tamping down the aftershocks. 

Dean looked at Cas like he invented apple pie.  “C’mere, Nugget,” he gathered his disgruntled charge onto his lap, “You can protect me from mean ol’ Sammy.”

“Ok, ok, I get it. I said I was sorry.  But Dean, why avoid Missouri all these years?  I’m sure that made an impression but you can’t still be scared of her.  I mean, she’s not exactly petite, but man—you could take her.”

Dean tapped his temple, “The picture’s still there, Sam—and it moves.  In vivid Technicolor.  You probably noticed that after that job I was a little, uh, nicer to people—for a while, anyway.”

“Nope.”

Cas was slurping individual noodles up like Lady and the Tramp. 

“Really, Sam?  Well, I was, cuz every time—crap, every time I made fun of someone, I got a rerun of that big, dark arm swinging away at my a—my butt.”

“I know the word ‘ass,’ Dean,” Cas said, casual as can be.

“Well try and forget it,” scolded Sam.

“It didn’t take long for me to find a witch who could take it out, but her spell would’ve wiped my whole memory of the person who put it there. Missouri helped us see Mom again, to put her soul to rest.  I never want to forget that.”

Sam sighed, “No, Dean, me neither.  But if you couldn’t remove it, how come you’re—well, _you_?  I mean, I’ve honestly never met anyone with more wise-ass things to say,” Sam thought a moment, then, “Well, maybe Gabriel.”

“That nasty little scene is still right where that sadistic, crazy—ahem, right where that woman put it.  I’ve read up on meditation, practiced some in Purgatory—Sam, you wouldn’t believe the extra time on your hands, when you don’t eat—and I’ve learned to sortta throw a blanket over the screen.  Can still hear it, sometimes.” At this, Dean gave a shiver.

“I can’t believe you’ve been keeping this secret all these years, Dean.”

“Well, would you tell your little brother you get spanked in your head every day?”

“Probably not.  But I gotta say, big brother—it took guts to cough it up today to help Cas.” At that, Cas nodded, patting Dean’s arm.

“So you think she can remove the images? “

“His or mine, Sam?” The younger hunter sighed yet again.

 “ _Cas’ images_ , Dean.  That’s what this is all about, right? “

“Of course, I know why we’re contacting Missouri, Sammy.  I was just messing with you.  If it makes you feel any better, she’s wailing the tar outta me, as we speak.”

Sam dared a small laugh, carefully eyeing the little angel—who was currently making a rice tower, a chopstick in each hand.

“You know, Dean, she might be truly unavailable, it’s been ages.  And we’ll have to get her to come here, seeing as we’re still under bunker arrest.” 

Cas spoke up, “Again, Sammy—not funny.”

 

 


	13. Missouri Runs through It (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was over 3.000 words, so I decided to split it into two parts--also, I know how much you all love cliffhangers (mwahawhawhaw).  
> ...........................................................................................................................

Dean was going stir-crazy.  It wasn’t the first time he had spent three consecutive days in the bunker—but it was the first time he knew he couldn’t leave.  Cas hovered around the adults, circling them like a border collie, if they got too far apart for him to keep an eye on.  The trash was overflowing, the fridge was empty, and Sam swore he suffered at least one mild heart attack from take out delivery.

Watching Sam and George enjoy the library together had become as exciting as folding wet cardboard, so Dean opted instead to try, once again, to break Cas’ intense vigil.  “Hey, Nugget, let’s watch a movie in my room.”

“No, thank you, Dean,” Cas continued to absently play with his favorite plastic helicopter—upside-down.  Rather disheartening.

The only thing keeping Dean from hopping in Baby and blowing this taco stand was the toddler sitting on the carpet, now mindlessly banging two blocks together.  Dean _promised_ Cas he wouldn’t leave the safety of the MOL headquarters—a promise he made to a distraught little face with cheeks flushed and soaked with tears—and _those eyes_.  Man--Dean would’ve promised Cas the sun, the moon, all the heavens, Aruba, and several circus elephants in the face of those magnetic blue worlds.

Besides, Missouri was coming.  Sam made the call that eluded Dean for so long, chatting easily with the psychic, occasionally struck dumb by her knowledge of the Winchesters’ history (things that never made The Supernatural books)—and her certainty that she was the one who could help them now.

“How’s your brother?”  Missouri’s breathy voice seemed to swirl up from the speaker and grab hold of Dean’s chin, his head jerking towards the phone.  “He’s good, he’s good—you know, same old Dean.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”  Dean wrapped his head in his arms, as if he could hide from the other end of a phone call.  “Oh, calm yourself, boy.  I never laid a finger on you—well, maybe just that one.”

In the end, Missouri had not so much agreed to come, but had insisted on it—despite having moved to Texas.  She saw Cas’ fear clearly and declared, “That child needs me, I can’t fix it all, but I can help with some of that fear.  Poor child’s so afraid.”

The prospect of helping Cas overrode Dean’s own fear—of Missouri, her spoon, and any new and fun torment she might bring him.  Making Cas less afraid sounded like a solid plan.

And so, Dean waited—not so patiently, for the psychic’s arrival, avoiding the doors and windows (though Cas’ bottomless appetite seemed to spurn a sudden blind trust in delivery men) and watching his companions read—while one fed his beloved teddy bear a wind-up boat.  Dean sighed for the fiftieth time that morning, absently throwing spit balls at the back of George’s ungroomed head; it was entertaining the way they blended into whitening hair.  Yup, Dean was busy.  That’s why he didn’t get up when the bell rang…once…twice…three times.

“Fine,” huffed Sam as he slammed closed the book he was reading.  “Don’t get up, Dean, I got it.”

Cas watched Sam stomp out and moved to follow, until Dean caught the little angel around the waist with one hand.  “Whoa, big guy, let Sam get it.  We’re expecting someone.”

Cas looked nervously between Dean and the doorway, where Sam had exited.  “It’s someone we know?  Who?”

Just then, Sam returned with a person Cas had the immediate urge to reach out and touch, but pulled his hand back, staring instead.

Missouri smiled down at the toddler, “Oh!  Aren’t you just an angel?”

Dean got to his feet, thinking of all manner of polite greetings, but then his mouth said, “Like we didn’t see that coming.”

The dark complexion of their visitor darkened two shades, as she turned slooooowly towards the hunter.  “Oh did you, Dean?  Well, I guess you don’t need a psychic, after all.”

Sam cleared his throat, gesturing towards their resident sorcerer. “Missouri, this is George, he—“

“I met George when I was a girl—remember that faire in Stockbridge?”

The old man nodded slowly, incredulous that he was face-to-face again with that extraordinary child.  “I wanted to see where the bunny had gone to and climbed under your stage.  I was devastated when I realized it was _really_ gone!  You’d made it actually cease to exist.”

Sam, Dean, and Cas looked back and forth between their guests, like they were at a tennis match.

George found his voice, at last, “So I conjured you another bunny and when you took it from me—“

Missouri’s voice was like a breeze, “We touched hands.  I saw a lot of things, but all I told you was, ‘Don’t trade it all, you’ll miss it, you’ll want it—you’ll need it.’”

George hung his head.

“And now it’s gone, isn’t it?  Now, you’re the magician you used to _pretend_ to be.  Oh, George.”  Missouri took both his hands, then fixed him with her huge eyes, “There’s sorcerer in you yet, honey.”

Missouri looked down to find Cas tugging at her pant leg, “I’m Castiel—what do you see in me?”

The psychic stooped to lift the little angel where he settled against her ample bosom.  “Well, let’s see, Castiel--why, you’re an old man!  Older than that fogie,” George didn’t seem to take offense.  “My word!  You’ve been so many places—places I’ve never heard of—and some that don’t even exist anymore.”  Missouri’s laughter rang deeper than her voice, “Have you really been to the sun?” 

Eskimo kissed, Cas was forced to giggle his answer, “Yes, Miss, and all the planets—and some other stars.”

Missouri gasped, “You have?  Tell, me, child—what’re Martians like?”

Sam and Dean marveled at Cas’ laughter—there was a time the angel would have readily corrected such misinformation, but right now Cas was fully little.  Maybe the stress of herding his human flock around the bunker had worn him out--regardless, it was quickly apparent that Cas and Missouri had hit it off.

“Are you hungry?” 

“No, thank you, Sam, I ate near the bus station.  You boys save your take-out for supper.”

Missouri glanced sideways, “But—if you could part with that last beer you hid in the back of the fridge, well Dean, I am just parched.”

The hunter sulked off towards the kitchen, thoroughly fed up already with their clairvoyant company—and grumbling as such.  “I can hear you, boy.”  Instantly, the familiar scene in Dean’s head was back—in HD—his latest comments had Missouri’s spoon playing the backside bongos in Dolby surround sound.  Dean ceased his griping and instead tried to concentrate on dropping a mental curtain in front of the disturbing image, but failed with the picture’s main star in the very next room. The scene became so real, Dean could almost feel it.  Damn.  Time for plan B—be nice to the lady with the freakin’ spoon.

“Here you are, Ma’am—and I brought you a glass.”  Sam’s eyebrows made for his hairline, as his brother beckoned Missouri to have a seat beside the table where he’d set her ( _his_ ) beer.  Missouri feigned surprise, “Why, thank you, Dean,” passing him Cas and taking the offered seat.  At first, Dean thought Cas was playing shy, tucking his face deep into Winchester flannel—but then he heard the stifled giggle.  Dean dipped his chin, trying to meet Cas’ eyes, “I thought you said it wasn’t funny, huh buster?”

George sat clueless of Dean’s distress, still trying to wrap his head around The Small World of Magic ride he was on.  Missouri took a sip of beer, making a yummy sound while studying a nearby bookshelf. As Cas’ shoulders shook with laughter, Sam ran a hand down his face—and left the room.

Dean lifted Cas away from him to find his little angel had completely lost his shit.  The kid was cackling hysterically, red-faced, wet-eyed, tongue between his teeth.  The little boy was laughing like—a little boy.  Dean grinned ear to ear, letting himself be infected by the contagious giggly-snorty-ball-of- _finally_ -happy kid.  “You’re right, Nugget, it’s hilarious,” Dean and Cas both threw their heads back whooping, “Be-besides, if I d-don’t laugh, I’m gonna start crying…soon.”  

A lifetime of hunter’s reflexes and Dean felt Missouri touch his temple before he knew she was there.  Oh, glorious day, the spanking spectacle dissolved at last.  The psychic smirked, jabbing a dark red nail in Dean’s relieved face, “You just best behave yourself, boy.”  Dean nodded, fast.

Sam returned with cold drinks, wiping at his eyes, wet at the crinkles.  He did a poor job at hiding his amusement, but Dean still accepted a can of coke from his brother, eyeballing the level in Cas’ cup.  “This the end of the juice?”

Sam nodded grimly, “it’s almost the end of everything.  Our cupboard’s bare.”

“Castiel, sweetie, why can’t Sam and Dean leave this place?”  Cas was almost sure Missouri knew why, but something in the pitch of the woman’s voice and it’s cadence worked hypnotically and he answered her anyways, “There’s something dangerous after them and it can’t locate them behind the wards of the bunker.”  Cas wasn’t laughing any more.

“Sam and Dean are the best hunters there are, sugar,” at that, Dean straightened up , “what monster is so, so bad the Winchesters can’t hunt it?”

His meager serving of juice gone, Cas considered the seer, little head tilted thoughtfully.  “One that lives only to hunt them.”

George spoke up, “If it’s only interested in them, why threaten me?”

“You could lead to them—that’s why you _weren’t supposed to_ talk to them, George.”

Missouri lifted Cas onto her hip, “Now, honey, it’s not George you’re upset with, is it?”

Just like that, Cas’ not-so-bad day went to Hell.  Sam and Dean recognized the start of his panic and moved in, only to be met by a mocha-colored palm with a perfect manicure.  “Let it happen now, boys.  The child has to look at his fear, so I can find it—take it.”

Poor Cas was bawling, barely breathing between long wails and shaking his head frantically. Missouri managed to hang on to him, as he struggled to get to Dean—who stood there miserable in his helplessness. “Ssshhh, Castiel—don’t fight it, baby,” she pressed him to her large chest, “All you gotta do is look—take a look right at it—and it will be gone.  I promise you.”  The psychic seemed to be losing the toddler wrestling match and both Sam and Dean had to put aside months of paternal instincts to keep from interfering.  Missouri sank to her knees to avoid dropping a wiggling Cas, and took his tiny face in both her hands, “You’ve looked on the faces of angels and demons alike, child— _now look_!”

Across the room, George was all too aware of what was about to be seen, and found himself peeking through his fingers at the drama.

Dean couldn’t stay passive any longer, “Cas, do as you’re told!”

 

Then there was screaming.

 

Then there was silence


	14. Missouri Runs Through it (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And LW reaches out twenty hands and helps you all up the cliff...

Missouri lay on the carpet, little Cas on top of her bulk—both unconscious. Dean handed Cas to George, then helped his brother heave and drag the hefty woman onto the sofa.  Retrieving Cas, Dean took him to his room to remove his urine-soaked pants.  Not caring that his little friend couldn’t hear him, Dean explained anyway, “Whatever that bastard did to your head, Nugget, it scared the piss outta you.”  As Dean finished cleaning and redressing Cas, Sam leaned into the doorway, “She’s awake, Dean. Tell me you’ve stashed away something stronger than beer.”

George sat beside Missouri on the couch, patting her back and dabbing at her tear-soaked cheeks.  “I know, I know, dear—I saw it too.  Barely slept since.”

Sam sat on Missouri’s other side and offered her a box of tissues, while Dean settled across from them, with Cas cradled like a baby.  The hunter recalled a time he had dubbed Cas a baby and the little angel had called him on it promptly.  How would Cas feel about being held this way?  Dean gathered him closer and decided he didn’t give a fig.

Missouri was still beside herself, shaking her head as she mangled a handful of tissues, “Oh, that poor, poor child.  The things he’s seen, no wonder he’s so afraid.”

“George filled us in _too much_ on what was in his head,” Dean looked down at peaceful little Cas, “Is it gone, now?  Did you take it out…like you did mine?”

Blowing her nose first, Missouri looked at Dean and his armful. “The trauma’s gone, but he’ll still remember seeing those awful things done to you two— just now he won’t have to live and re-live it anymore. It wasn’t the same as yours, Dean.  The monster who created those terrible scenes didn’t just plant the images—Castiel _saw it happen_.  He was taken to the future.”

The room went silent, besides the psychic’s sniffling.  Sam broke it, “So these things—the torture, the pain, the dismemberment—aren’t visions?  They’re our future?”

Missouri sat still with her eyes shut tightly, the rest of the room staring expectantly.  The seer exhaled loudly and opened her eyes.  “It’s murky, boys.  Right now, it’s a possibility, but something’s blocking it from being what’s to definitely come.”

“Thanks for the clarity, oh Ghost of Christmas Future.”

Again, Dean found himself at the end of the fingernail of doom, “Boy, I happen to know you got _three_ wooden spoons in that kitchen!  I can and _will_ make them part of _your_ future!”

“M’sorry, Ma’am,” Dean backpedaled, fully believing her.

 

Cas came around nearly an hour later, padding into the kitchen with bed-head and the hungry horrors.  “Morning, sunshine!” Dean sat the angel next to him and stuck a chicken wing in his waiting mouth.  BBQ sauce dribbled down Cas’ chin, “It’s not morning, look,” he corrected Dean, pointing at a dark skylight. 

“Well, what do you know?  And I went and put the cat out,” Dean munched casually, as he waited for it.

“Dean, we don’t have a cat!”

“We don’t?”  Dean looked up from his chicken in mock shock.

The other adults at the table were clearly enjoying the exchange.

“Well, which one of you’s been poopin’ in the litter box?”

Sam broke first, as usual, then the whole table dissolved into much-needed laughter.  As they washed down delivery wings with water, dinner felt almost…normal.

Retiring to the living room with Dean’s prize cache of whiskey, the four adults read while Cas played solitaire on the rug.  It took him a long time to play, as the cards were cumbersome in his little hands—and while he played, the “reading” adults watched.  They took turns checking on the boy for—what?

“What?” asked Cas, his voice sharper than his age, “What are you waiting for, you think I’m gonna explode?  Spit pea soup?”

Sam glared at his brother, knowing full well the toddler hadn’t watched The Exorcist on his own.

But Dean’s attention was on Cas, “We’re just worried about you, Nugget.  How ya feeling?”

“I’m fine, Dean,” the tried-and-true mantra of Team Free Will rolled easily off Cas’ tiny tongue.

“Really, buddy?  Cuz earlier today, you tried to break the sound barrier—not to mention the nice psychic lady,”  Dean motioned for Cas to come to him, but the angel stayed glued to his card game, now slamming down each card.

Sam tried next, “Look, Cas, we understand you’ve been through some tough stuff—I get that.  But we know there’s more to it and considering it’s definitely about us, don’t you think we deserve to know?”

“I already told you, Sam, the more you know—“

“The greater the danger, yeah you told us,” Sam folded his hands and leaned way down in his chair to meet Cas’ eyes, “Trouble is, I don’t believe that.”

Cas’ sigh came from up from his toes.  “You weren’t far off, Dean—when you called him Voldemorte, Amos, I mean.  I don’t use his real name because it calls to him, gets his attention.  Even thinking too much about him leads to dreams and in dreams—“

 

“He can find you.”  Missouri’s whispered voice hung in the center of the room.

 

Sam cleared his throat and finger-combed his hair back off his face, “But I thought the wards were protecting us?”

“For now, Sam.  When George got _pulled_ into my dream—that was a failed ward.  He’s very powerful and looking for the slightest weakness.  But he doesn’t know where the bunker is—yet," Cas hung his head, "George, I’m really sorry, but I think your apartment and your possessions are all gone by now.”

George’s white chin fell open, “My whole apartment?”

 “The whole building, George,” Missouri answered.

Awkward silence.

Cas looked down at the seven of hearts he was spinning under his finger—and kept right on spinning it.

 Missouri climbed down onto the rug to face the boy, “Castiel, honey.  I saw what he— _it_ showed you.  Now you know this Miss ain’t gonna lie to you, right?”  The Psychic took both Cas’ hands, “It’s not necessarily what’s _to be_ , child.  They can change it— _we_ can change it.  Now I can feel that thing is evil, feel it’s power, and I know how badly it wants to harm your friends—but Cas, I can also feel how much you love them and you and I both know that if there’s a chance to stop this—we need to take it.”

Tears slid down Cas’ pink cheeks, silent and sullen and Missouri once again lifted him to her comfy bosom.  As he sunk into her shoulder, Missouri whispered into Cas’ ear, with just a tiny voice, “Sam and Dean love you more than they do themselves.  Let them love you, child.  Let them help.  Let them in.”

They stayed like that awhile, Missouri on her knees, rocking what she certainly knew to be a miniature angel in her wide arms.  Sam, Dean, and George all recognized the moment, the shift in Cas, and waited patiently for the little guy to work the rest out.

Finally, Cas lifted his head, a bit sleepy but wearing a brave little boy face.

“His name is Asmodeus.”

Cas wiped his snuffles on his sleeve.

 

“He’s an archdemon.”

 


	15. He Fell as Far as He could Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Answers
> 
> .......................................................................................

Dean broke the stunned silence, “An _archdemon_ , Cas—is that like my werepire?”

Sam spoke up before his brother could pursue his mistimed joke, “Why haven’t we ever come across an archdemon in the lore, Cas?”

“As— _Amos_ is the only one of his kind.  He claims that eight more will follow him, but for now—thank God, there’s just him.”

“What does an archdemon want with you, Cas? With me?  With Sam?”

Glancing at Missouri, who gave him an encouraging nod, Cas let out one of his too-big-for-a-toddler sighs, “I lied to you, Dean.”

“We know you’ve been hiding this stuff, Nugget, but it’s ok, now.  Just tell us the truth.”

“No, before, when we first met. After I pulled you from Hell, Dean, I told you that angels hadn’t walked the Earth in two thousand years—but _I_ had.  I was sent here on a mission, two hundred years before—it was sort of an audition to save The Righteous Man.”

“Well, we know you got the part, but why lie about it?”

Cas jumped to his feet, while Missouri pried herself more slowly off the uncomfortable floor.  As the large woman found her footing, little Cas took her hand.  “Why, thank you, young man—well, I guess maybe I shouldn’t call you that, hmm?”

“No, Miss, please do—I like when you say it, “ Cas smiled up at her, his nose and cheeks still pink from crying.  Missouri couldn’t help but smile back and squeezed his tiny hand, before taking her seat.

Cas remained standing, addressing everyone, “My mission had to be secret to be successful—and it remained classified—until a few months ago.”

“Let me guess—your mission has escaped,” Sam revealed he had an inkling of what Castiel had been sent to do.

Cas looked up at the hunter, tall even in his chair, “Yes, Sam.  I was to take a man to Hell—to lock him away deeper than Lucifer’s cage.”

Dean scratched his head, “Isn’t that what demons are for?”

“Usually, but this ‘man’ was a special case,” Dean wiped his smile away quickly, as the toddler made the cutest air quotes.”

“So you sent Amos to Hell, but what’s his beef with us?” Dean kept the questions coming.

Cas looked at his green and blue socks and hugged himself, “It’s all my fault—he only wants to hurt me.”

Dean retrieved his sad little charge and carried him over to sit in lap.  “So far, it all sounds like Amos’ fault to us.”

Missouri spoke, “What was so special about Amos they needed an angel to damn him?”

“They needed an angel, because he _was_ an angel.  But he fell—tore out his own grace and chose to be human.  Amos had admired God’s creation--not its beauty, but its violence, its hate, its anger.  The angel saw power in it all.”

Sam closed his eyes and gasped in realization, “Asmodeus, the Angel of Wrath.”

“Please don’t use his name lightly, Sam—it can create rifts in the wards.” 

“Yeah, Sam—Voldemorte’s bad for the wards. Go on, Nugget, tell us about the _Angel of Wrath_.”

“So, _Amos_ , which was his human name, was born to a human.  But he didn’t fall blindly, he chose the woman who would be his mother—mentally ill and abusive—Amos was so twisted, he wanted to experience all of mankind’s negativity.  He thrived on his deranged upbringing—and made his first killing at the age of seven—his own mother.  Insane, but beautiful, she had married, angering her son.  Amos grew up to be the most horrific—and prolific serial-killer of his time.  He targeted women on their wedding night—butchering them in front of their tied-up grooms.”

“The Honeymoon Hacker,” that was George, who surprised everyone. “He terrorized several towns in southern France in the early eighteen hundreds.”

“Friend of yours, George?”

“Dean, you are just askin’ for it,” Missouri’s warning came out deeper than her usual wispy voice.

George was abashed, “Certainly not!  That man was a monster—feared by all.  Couples who could afford to spent their wedding nights with an armed guard—“

“And the ménage a trois was born.”

The whole room, including Cas just looked at Dean, who smiled all around—until he didn’t and just looked at his hands.

Missouri cleared her throat, “So, Castiel, you were sent to stop him?”

“Well, no, I wasn’t sent to stop the killing spree—just to save one victim—a future prophet named Juliette.  It’s usually an archangel’s job to protect a prophet, but Heaven sent _me_ , as I was in line to save the Righteous Man.  Instead of smiting Amos, I was to take him into Hell, to a secret place where he could no longer threaten the prophet—then escape the pit myself.  I wished to be chosen, so I completed my mission well.”

Cas sat up straight and tall on Dean’s lap, not trying to hide his pride.  Dean smiled at his little angel—damn, he was cute. 

“So, how did Amos escape?”  Way to ruin a moment, Sam.

“Well, you know time is different in Hell, so Amos had been there millennia when I was sent down once again to save you, Dean.  Millennia of being thrown souls to torture—to shut him up.  Millennia to cultivate the hate and violence he fed on in life.  Millennia to hate me.  I could hear the thing he had become screaming my name—he sensed I was there and when I took _you_ , Dean—all of Hell heard him scream that you were his—that Alistair had thrown him his ‘leftover scraps’ for years.  He could feel my grace—and your soul, Dean.  He wanted us both, for his toys.”

Dean was no longer in a joking mood.  Everything Cas had done for him, fighting, rebelling—raising him from Hell, just got even _bigger_. 

“The broken seals, Lucifer rising, the Apocalypse—Amos learned about it all.  He had informants—and gained accomplices. Eventually, they saw the opportunity to break him out—sometime after Lucifer went back in the cage.  You two had Crowley in the dungeon and Abaddon was running Hell, from the Earth.”

“Who _are_ you people?”  George asked again.

The whole room answered the sorcerer, “The Winchesters.”

“That was a while ago, Cas, where’s the demon been?”  Sam asked.

“Amos was maniacal, even for a demon and the others feared him.  He was isolated so long, once free the first thing he did was destroy his accomplices, he had to learn how to leave Hell, find a vessel, and exist in a world he hadn’t seen in centuries—all on his own.  Demons are more powerful than humans, but Amos wanted _all_ the power he could get—so he sought his fallen grace.”

“A demon can’t use grace—can it?” Dean shifted Cas so he was facing him more. 

“That’s what we always believed—but Fate wasn’t kind to us.”

“Yeah, I remember her being a total bi—“

Sam’s chronic throat problem kicked into high gear.

“What?  She tried to drop a fridge on us!”

“Let Cas tell the story, Dean.”

“Amos finally found his grace near where he was born—imbedded in rock, where it had formed a natural spring.  But the spring was foul, polluted with blood as it ran beside an animal slaughterhouse.  Amos used a witch to retrieve his grace—and cast a spell to blend it with the butchery water.  Amos killed the witch and added her blood to the mix.  The tainted grace transformed the demon into something unique and powerful, fully demonic with the power of heaven—a complete abomination.  Archdemon is what he calls himself.”

“It does flow better than ‘The Angel Formerly known as Asmod—“ Dean’s head snapped forward, as Missouri’s meaty hand connected with the back of it.  “Ow! How’d you get over here that fast?”

“Boy, I know every piece of snark’s gonna come outta your mouth, ‘fore you do.”

Dean rubbed at his head, gaining no sympathy from the others, while Missouri stood her ground beside him—waiting.

“Ok, ok, I’m sorry. Go ahead, Cas.”

“You’re not gonna like this part, Dean.  In Hell, Amos had tried to bargain for your soul—he _admired_ what Alistair had made you become,” Cas concentrated on his little hands, “he wanted a kindred spirit.”

“Awesome.”

“But, Dean—I found you first and raised you—“

“From perdition, you sure did, buddy,” Dean patted Cas’ back.

“So that’s why he’s hunting us now, Cas?  He still wants Dean’s soul?”

“No, Sam,” Cas laid a pudgy hand on Dean’s chest, “Dean’s soul looks nothing like it did in the pit.  It’s bright, and healthy—and good.  Dean’s good.”

For a moment, all Dean could do was stay glued to Cas’ stare, then his eyes burned and he looked away to quickly dry them.

Missouri’s voice softened as she laid a hand on his shoulder, “Your friend knows more about you than you do, Dean.”

Sam knew the compliments had his brother wriggling like a vat of night crawlers, so he moved things along, “If Amos doesn’t want Dean’s soul, what’s his beef with us?”

“It’s with me, Sam--for stopping his killing spree, for locking him up, for rescuing Dean.  For being a fallen angel who still had my grace.  He’s not interested in killing anymore—only torture, only pain.  Amos knows the way to hurt me is to hurt you.”  Cas leaned into Dean’s chest, his lip wobbling.

“Castiel, how can you know all this?” The sorcerer asked before Sam could.

Cas curled up against Dean, who hugged him close, as Missouri said, “Go on, honey, it’s not your fault—none of this is your fault.  Tell them what that demon did to you.”

“To me?” Cas shook his head, “To me?”

Missouri knelt closer to the tight ball of toddler, “Angel, Sam and Dean will understand.”

“Cas, you’ve come this far, not like we don’t have the time,” Dean’s words caused the boy to lift his furry head and regard the adults thoughtfully.  He stayed pressed into Dean, knees under his chin, but began, “Time is exactly what happened.  Amos’ new power helped him to find me easily—he could sense my grace.  Sam and Dean, you were away on a hunt and I was cleaning up from your last one—six decapitated vamps to dispose of—thankfully, far away from the bunker.  Amos caught me unawares, watching the stars in the woods—and took me.”

“Did he take you to the cabin in your dream?”

“Yes, George, but I knew we had time traveled—it takes a toll on angels and I was so weak, he pinned me down, with a wave of his hand.  Amos was unaffected—and got right to work.”  Cas seemed so much tinier, balled up in Dean’s arms, the hunter stroked his hair, sensing Cas’ hesitation.

“You and Sam were there, but you were both…not whole.  I couldn’t move at all to stop the razor. Or the needles.  Or the fire...”  Cas just stared off into the awful future.

“Come back to us, child, you’re not there, anymore.” Cas blinked—but kept his eyes unfocused, even as Missouri touched his face.  Dean stood up and walked the room with his still little friend, bouncing him a bit.  “C’mon, Nugget, we’re right here, we’re not in that cabin.”  Sam walked beside them, waving a hand in front of Cas, whose eyes remained fixed.

“George, you once woke a girl from a coma—the family paid you everything they had.”

“That was ages ago, Miss—that kind of power is long gone.”

Missouri folded her arms and made a face—and aside from his worry for Cas, Dean was ecstatic it wasn’t directed at him.

George swallowed a gulp, “Won’t hurt to try,” then turning towards Dean and Sam, “May I?”

The brothers both nodded and George cupped a hand over Cas’ forehead, murmuring under his breath.  From under his wrinkled hand, energy hummed.  George stopped speaking and hummed along with it.  Then Cas hummed, “Hmmmmm—hello, George.”

The relief in the room was palpable as Missouri clapped her manicured hands, “Told ya so.”

Cas continued, despite his short vegetative state, looking from Sam to Dean, “I couldn’t stop him—all I could do was watch—and, and listen.  He wouldn’t let you die, kept healing just enough to keep you alive—it went on and on.”

“How did you get away?” Sam’s big hand gently engulfed Cas’.

“I didn’t.  Amos kept me there, watching him hurt you both. “

“But Cas, you’re back now, so it had to have ended some time.”

“I really don’t know, Dean. I stopped counting after, after—“

Dean worried the angel was drifting again, “Nugget?”

 “After the first hundred years.”


	16. The First Hundred Years are the Hardest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, once again, to DeadMockingbirds, my awesome beta, my mentor, my friend.  
> Once we agreed on this chapter's final edit, she told me it had "the magic." Love her.  
> Hold on to your butts...  
> ....................................................................................................................

“Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God,” Dean’s mouth repeated, after he sank into a chair, where he continually rocked both himself and Cas.

Sam looked just as distraught, “Oh, Cas, oh, hun.”

The boys’ guests let the news sink in, both shaking their heads.

Cas had a double grip on Dean’s shirt front, securing himself to his hunter, “In the end, I’m sure I watched him torture you for centuries.”

Dean managed to meet Sam’s eyes, “Is it still PTSD if it happens in the future?”

All Sam could manage was a nod, as understanding penetrated—Cas had been tortured right along with he and his brother, unable to help their suffering for so, so long.

“He brought me back to right when we left, to make it happen—Amos only knew how to find you through me—he was as ignorant as I had been when I first came to Earth—technology baffled him.  But he now knows my grace well and can track me by it.”

“Well, no wonder you were so eager to remove it!  Castiel, I couldn’t imagine why you’d choose such a vulnerable, powerless vessel—Amos can no longer recognize you.  Without your memories of him, you’ve hidden yourself and your friends, all these months,” Cas nodded at George, grateful for his input.

“Now that I remember, he can locate his name in my head—he’s unbelievably powerful.”

“But he’s not quite clairvoyant, is he, child?”

Cas rested his tired head against Dean’s shoulder, where he relaxed a bit into the hunter’s steady rocking.  “No, Miss, he can’t read minds, only hear his name—like a perverted version of prayer.  He was an angel before anything else and Amos’ deformed grace still _wants_ to be an angel.”

“So, we all know his name, now—that means we’re stuck here, behind the wards, until we find a way to kill him.”

“Sam, I told you—you can’t kill him.  Besides, this is my fight—it’s me he really wants to hurt.”

Dean stopped rocking and held Cas up, so they were face-to-face, “You get that idea outta your head, _right now_ —do you hear me, little man?”

Cas narrowed his eyes at Dean, round jaw set firmly, “Like you said, his beef’s with me,” Cas jabbed a stubby thumb at himself, “I was an angel, too and I’ve got the best chance against him.”

Sam came over and squatted at Cas’ level, “You listen good, Cas. You are _not_ to try to defeat Amos, or surrender to him, or whatever hair-brained, foolhardy scheme you come up with.  Castiel, we’re all in this together—like it or not, you’re not an angel anymore, hun, and you need us, _all of us_ , if there’s any chance to beat him.”

For once, both hunters were totally immune to their little one’s tears.  They formed a united front, both locking Cas under stern, no-nonsense looks.  “B-but, it’s my fault, h-he wants me.”

“No,” came out of Sam and Dean simultaneously.

 

 

Cas didn’t want a bath that night, but Dean insisted.  While Cas was due for a scrub, Dean mostly wanted to spend some leisurely time with his little friend.  Sam got Missouri settled into one of the bunker’s many bedrooms, while Dean gave his buddy a suds beard and mustache, claiming he looked just like he had in Purgatory.  Cas had carried his contrary mood into the tub, complaining, “it wasn’t white, Dean—my beard was black.  And dirty.”

Dean massaged the bubbles into Cas’ chin, “Well, how do you know it wouldn’t have looked like this, if it were clean?”

Cas fought the smile, but Dean spied it through the foam.  He played with the boy the whole time he was in the tub, not bothering to wash his pink skin, instead watching it get pruny from the prolonged soak.  As he lifted the angel from the draining bath, Dean wrapped him extra tight in a big towel and tilting his wet head downward, mercilessly tickled him.  Finally gaining his prize, Dean reveled in toddler giggles, satisfied at last to see the child-like joy.  Thank God—the last few days had been an emotional roller coaster—and Dean hated roller coasters.

Keeping the bunker shut up tight and the addition of two more adults had made the spacious building feel stuffy and stagnant, so Dean dressed Cas in little sleep shorts and his choice of super hero undies—no nightmares equals no accidents.  Dean smiled at his cute little friend, as he slipped a matching t shirt over Cas’ damp hair.  “Thank you for taking such good care of me, Dean.  I don’t know what would have happened to me without you and Sam.”  Dean said ‘you’re welcome’ with a warm kiss to Cas’ forehead, his lips lingering there, while his big, rough hand gently cupped the back of the angel’s neck.

“Wanna say goodnight, buddy?” 

Cas nodded and held out his arms for Dean to carry him.  As they made their way down the hall towards the others’ voices, Dean thought about time—how taking care of Cas this way had only begun a few short months ago, but it seemed at times that they always had. He thought about how he had missed his friend, at first, before this new relationship eclipsed the old and wondered if Cas missed being Dean’s best friend, not just his little buddy.  Then Dean thought how Cas was now centuries older than before and what he had gone through in those added years.

“—I said, Earth to Dean.  Hello, Dean.” Sam’s big mitt waved in his face several times before Dean’s thoughts traveled back to the present. 

 “Sorry, Sammy—just thinking.”

“Those are some loud, thoughts, boy,” Missouri’s words startled Dean.

 “Relax, honey—they’re all completely understandable.  But you let them go, now, so you can get some sleep—y’hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Cas went to Sam’s strong arms for his customary goodnight kiss and returned a wet one on his stubbled cheek.  He even hugged George and thanked him for helping him.  But Cas was eager to get back to Dean’s embrace, so Missouri settled for kissing his towel-dried hair then turned once again to Dean, “Let it go, tonight, sugar. Just enjoy him.”

Dean nodded, hugging his little one, as they headed to bed.  They cuddled close, getting cozy with a book about a curious puppy, then Dean drifted off with Cas curled into his side, softly breathing.  It couldn’t have been a better way to end the trying day.

 

That is, until Dean was shaken awake, violently.

 

“Dean! Dean, wake up! Wake up, hurry, Dean!  He’s gone!”

Dean’s hand went instinctively to his now empty side, as he sat up and asked blearily, “Who, Sam?”

“Cas—he’s just gone, Dean!”

Sam panted in panic over his brother, while Dean rubbed at his eyes, and reached for his gun.  “Did you look in—?“

“I looked everywhere, Dean— _everywhere_!”

Dean was wide awake now and got quickly to his feet, getting dressed with shaking hands.

“That’s not all, Dean—George is gone, too.”

 

 


	17. Gone Baby Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, you all wanted to know what happens--well, this happens.
> 
> Trust LW.
> 
> I made up the factory.
> 
> Scroll at the end for  
> extraordinary fan art by reafre  
> .........................................................................................................................................

As The Winchesters scrambled to leave the bunker, Sam’s phone started ringing in his pocket.

“Hey, Sam, you got the—?”

“ _Sam_.”

“Angel blade? Yeah, Dean.  How about--?”

“ _Sam_.”

“Ruby’s knife is in the trunk.”

“ _Sam_ \--Samuel Winchester! You answer that phone, boy!” Missouri yelled over their prepping.

Sam noticed Dean’s name just before answering, “Hello?  George! George, where’s Cas?”

Dean crowded his brother, trying to hear the call, so Sam turned on the speaker.

The old man’s voice trembled violently, “He has him, he has him—A-Amos, he took us both!”

“ _Where_ , George? Where are you?” Dean’s angry tone barely hid his panic.

“I-I don’t know, but we’re not together.  He took the child—and let me go.”

“What? Where? George, look around—what do you see?”

There was a pause, as George tried to answer Sam, “It’s like a ghost town, nobody in sight.  I can see water.  I’m outside some kind of factory—“

“He’s at the old Webster Canning Plant,” Dean looked up, questioning his brother, “I turned the on your phone’s GPS.”

“Relax, George, we know where you are—stay put, we’re coming." The a thought gave Dean pause, " Hey—did you steal my phone?”

“No, Castiel must have taken it.  Dean, wait—that thing gave me your phone and set me free—I’m bait to get you here—this is a trap!”

“We know,” the brothers spoke as one, then Sam finished, “We’re coming anyway.”

“George, was Cas ok?  Did Amos—he didn’t hurt him?”

The sorcerer was quick to answer Dean, “He was fine, when I saw him last—terribly frightened, but unharmed.  The child was right, the demon wants to hurt him by hurting you—it said so much with that horrible, metal mouth.”

Dean sighed, his eyes closed, then, “How the Hell did it take him, anyway?”

“I’m afraid your little angel left the bunker," George paused, then getting no reaction, clarified, "He ran away."

Sam and Dean both stared at the phone, stunned.

George cleared his throat, in the silence, “I couldn’t sleep, so I was working in the library, when I heard the door.  I ran and opened it to see the child headed towards the woods.  There was no time to wake you, he was almost out of sight—so I followed and called his name, but I lost him in dark.  That’s when the demon grabbed my shoulder and then we were here.”

The hunters had finished packing an arsenal during the speaker call, while Missouri listened in, wringing her hands.

“Stay at the plant, George, we’ll be there before sundown,” Sam ended the call, as he stuffed another machete in his duffel.

As they headed up the stairs, Missouri chased after them, calling, “Wait! Wait, boys, wait!”

Dean turned on her, “You’re not gonna stop us.”

“Oh, well, I know that,” the psychic panted, winded from the steps, “But I need you both to listen to me—you can’t go out there ‘til you clear your heads—Dean, yours is screamin’.”

“We don’t have time—“

“You’re gonna make time, boy.  All you two are thinking about are Cas and Amos—that demon’s gonna hear you call to him, loud and clear.  You’ll find your baby, but that monster will have you—and poor Cas will have to watch it--you’ll make it all come true.”

Dean seethed, feeling helpless, as his brother asked, “How, Missouri? Can you help us?”

“Close your eyes, take deep, deep breaths,” Missouri’s words were slow, deliberate.

“Am I gonna end up clucking like a chicken?”

“Boy, you and I have a hot date when this is over—now _breathe.”_

Dean obeyed, matching Sam’s steady inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.  Missouri touched their foreheads, her own eyes closed.  The only sounds were their breaths and a distant ticking clock, then, “Now get your butts outta here and go save that angel!”

 

The Winchesters had taken countless road trips—they practically grew up in the Impala.  Cross-country treks, back and forth with only roadside breaks, either solo or taking turns behind the wheel, were common and more than that—normal.  Dean once drove across five states, non-stop, peeing in empty beer bottles and eating nothing but pie. And he liked it.

This trip, however, neither brother liked—the road seemed bumpier, the Impala sluggish.  They were only travelling across three quarters of Kansas, but they may as well have been driving to Narnia.  It was a long trip.  Especially, since Sam and Dean were avoiding talking—and thinking—about their mission.  Not worrying about Cas proved impossible, but Dean employed some of his old meditation techniques to literally throw the wool over Amos, the archfucker.  He found trying to count how many times he’d given Cas a bath helped, or the exact color pattern Cas had repeated while lining all his dinosaurs up around the perimeter of the map table—man, that kid had a lot of dinosaurs.

As for Sam, he laughed to himself thinking of the time he found Dean in the garage, working on the Impala, with Cas “helping.”  Dean had his head under the hood, while AC/DC blared from Baby’s open window and Cas was doing his best Angus Young, jamming air guitar on an enormous wrench.  Letting that moment rock on was worth his flattened soufflé.

As they hit a bump, the car’s trunk clattered—not knowing what they would need to fight their new enemy, the brothers had packed it all.  Guns, stakes, salt rounds, holy water, amulets—and every sharp thing known to man—a few only to Heaven and Hell.

Finally entering the abandoned town, the Impala glowed in the setting sun—right on time.  Parking a distance from the towering factory, Sam and Dean loaded what they could from their arsenal in their pockets along with Sam’s bag.  As Dean slammed the trunk, he and Sam checked out their surroundings; graffiti-covered structures, most nearly collapsing and litter virtually everywhere.  But no Cas and no asshole teenage demon.  Guns drawn, they moved carefully towards the smokeless smokestacks. Despite the late hour, a crow flew overhead, complaining loudly to the orange sky.

“Ok, well that made this place way less creepy.”

Sam didn’t respond, knowing full well his older brother’s nerves were somewhat soothed by his humor.  Besides, this place _was_ creepy—but creepy was their business.

As they neared the factory, Sam called, “George? It’s us,” using his indoor voice, cautious.  A familiar white head peeked around a rusted door jamb and said, “Yes, yes, they’re alone.”

Sam and Dean found themselves instantly inside the gloomy room with George—and someone else. 

A single candle burned on a stack of broken timber, shedding light on similar piles of rusted metal and long-forgotten machinery parts.  It also perfectly under-lit the thin, teen frame, topped with a pocked complexion, under blonde, swept-back hair.  It smiled and the candle flame ricocheted off its braces.  If this kid hadn’t been an archdemon, Dean decided he’d still punch his lights out, just because.

“Where’s Cas, Bieber?”

It laughed without humor—but like someone who had spent a great deal of time in front of a mirror perfecting their laugh.

“Not here.  But not far.”  For all the teen clothes, teen skin, and teen orthodontics, this thing sounded nothing like a teen.  Its voice coiled through the kid’s larynx like a rototiller, emerging as Harvey Firestein meets The Wizard of Oz. 

As they tried to level their guns at the demon, Sam and Dean found them—gone.  They looked at each other, then at George, who seemed unable to get off the floor.

“Uh-uh-uh, none of that.  Or that either,” it said, nodding to where Sam’s weapon bag had been, “I mean, you can’t hurt me, but I really like these clothes—so twenty-first century—and you’ll just poke ugly holes in them.  You should see what they’re wearing next century—no imagination.”

George seemed in utter distress, his eyes bulging and his pale skin flushed. With effort, he scooted back towards the rusted, bent doorway—and it instantly became a smooth, flat wall.

“What’s wrong with him?  He did what you wanted, let him go,” Sam put a hand on the old man’s shoulder, but he only made guttural grunts.

“Why should I? Hm? He _helped_ that _angel_ hide from me.”

“You wanted us, you got us.  Put your big boy panties on and man-up.  Let the old-timer go and…be old.”

It laughed again (ew).  “Oh, yes, Dean.  And won’t he have a wonderful time ‘being old’—without his tongue?”

Sam looked at George, sadly—this wasn’t going to end well for the sorcerer.  A single tear rolled down George’s cheek, disappearing in white stubble, as he locked eyes with the tall man at his side.  Sam, in turn, looked blankly at Dean. Message received.

Dean balled up his fists, squaring off with his adolescent adversary, “You son-of-a-bitch, greasy, sackless, bloated, garbage-eating shitheel!”

Amos looked genuinely offended, “Bloated?”

Dean took a determined step forward, only to be flung back against the nearest wall.  Instantly pinned, next, Dean got a face full of blonde menace. “Do you really think you’re any match for me? Or your brother, huh?”  Sam was slammed up and pinned against the wall right behind him, “Or that pruny magician or your little— _boyfriend_?”

Dean”s eyes darted to meet the demon’s, “Huh?”

“Oh, the things I’ve seen, hunter,” the demon flipped its eyeballs and Dean could see himself reflected in the black, “The good news?  I’m going to tell you about it all—we’ve got lots of time.  The bad news?  Well, I’ll be carving you and your brother apart, while I do,” it grinned big and metallic, “Taking out your eyes and sawing off your fingers and burning—“

 

The shadowy room was suddenly filled with blinding, heavenly light.  Dean shut his eyes involuntarily and felt himself slide down the wall, released. Along with the blazing light, came a window-shattering screech—that was Teenage Mutant Amos Asshole, Dean was sure of it.

As the light faded, it took the men a few minutes to adjust back to the dark, radiance burned on their retinas, right through their eyelids.

First order of business—Amos was gone.

Second order of business—George was a bloody mess. 

The brothers crouched on either side of the old man, Sam supporting his head.  The sorcerer was bleeding from his nose, his ears, his mouth—it looked like his hair might even be bleeding.  But most concerning, was the jagged gash up the man’s left arm, a rusty piece of metal by his right hand. 

“Way to go, George! What the Hell did you do?” Dean asked, sincere towards him for once.

Both George’s hands were saturated with blood which he smeared on Kevin’s pj’s, as he groped for his pocket, making unintelligible noises.  Sam retrieved a few crumpled papers for him, following his gaze, with adjusted sight, at the wall behind them, where a large, bloody sigil dripped slowly, it’s center smudged.

“This is why you were working in the library last night?  You designed a new sigil!”

“Yahtzee! George, you’re a genius!” That got a weak, bloody smile, so Dean went for it, “George, you’re the greatest sorcerer we’ve ever known.”

Fading fast, pained—but dignified, George nodded, just before his eyes slipped closed and the old man gurgled a final breath.

“Shit.”

“I know, Sam, I know.  Will you take care of him?  I’ve gotta find Cas!”

“Yeah, sure, Dean, go—wait! Take your phone.”

“Ok, and Sam—keep that sigil—it’s the only weapon we got.”

Dean pushed on the wall where the broken door had been and it crumbled away.  Just outside, lay their confiscated armory. “Asshat.”

Grabbing a flashlight out of Sam’s bag, Dean started searching the broken-down town, building after building, calling Cas’ name.  He had almost reached the lake, when he saw it—a little shack, weather-beaten but otherwise sound, stood lakeside.  “Cas’ nightmares,” Dean told himself, as he sprinted for the structure. Calling Cas loudly, the hunter could still barely hear his own voice over his pounding heart.  He crashed through the door.

 

“Deeeaan,” uttered a tiny voice, worn tired from calling out.

Spying him in the corner, Dean rushed to Cas, who had curled in a little ball on his side, his hands and feet bound cruelly.  “I’m here, buddy—I gotcha. I’m here, Cas.” Dean quickly untied the ropes, momentarily rubbing the pinch marks on the tender skin, then he had his Lil Nugget safely pressed to his chest.  Clutching the angel firmly, one hand capping the little head, his trembling fingers burrowed in the shaggy crown, Dean just kept repeating, “I gotcha, Cas. I gotcha, buddy. I’m here, Cas, I gotcha.  I’m here. I’m here,” the mantra murmured low, but still tainted with frantic panic. 

Rising from the filthy floor, the two still latched on to one another, Dean made his way to a nearby threadbare office chair, retrieving his phone from his jeans before sinking down on the seat with a weary sigh.

“ _I got him_ ,” he typed to Sam, the phone immediately buzzing back, “ _Don’t let him go._ ”

Dean gave a scoff which melted into a humorless chuckle as he dropped the phone in his shirt pocket.

“Deeeaaan,” came the whine from the hollow of his neck, Cas rubbing his emotions into the soft flannel there. “I’m sorry, Dean—I tried but he was too strong for me.”

It was then that a long-quelled creature within Dean _awoke_ —primal and terrified.

It slithered and slunk it’s wan, twitching awareness to Dean’s ear and there it hissed, “ _You almost lost Castiel—forever._ ”

 **Pop**!

(At a later time, Dean would realize that this had been the sound of his head coming out of his ass)

Dean lifted Cas away from him, strong hands gripped tight under the boy’s arms, fixing him with a steely stare.  Castiel—and especially little Cas, had never shown any fear of Dean.  Dean was his protector, his care-giver, his friend.  But as the toddler found himself caught in those detached, icy beams , he gulped involuntary. “D-d-dean?”

“I’m _not_ going to lose you, Nugget,” the hunter responded, his voice as frigid as his gaze.

Cas had no time to form a reply, as he next found himself face-down over Dean’s broad lap. “Not gonna lose you,” Dean growled through clenched teeth.  Just about the same moment the little angel began to understand what was happening, Dean began to spank the ever-loving daylights out of him.

After all he had been through, the shock of that moment seemed to freeze Cas in time—all that he felt was regret—along with the crushing truth that _Dean was punishing him_.  Oh, and he definitely felt his stinging bottom.

Cas’ little rear had already burst into virtual flames before he realized his pj shorts and Iron Man underwear had been unceremoniously yanked down, limiting his frantic kicking.

As that terrified part of Dean woke up another part was forced aside in order for the hunter to perform the task at hand.  He bared the tiny backside in front of him, the one he carefully scrubbed clean in the tub, that soft little roundness he rubbed circles over, helping to lull his drowsy buddy to sleep—and that second of hesitation once again jabbed and prodded at the primal fear beast—“ _Castiel is dead and gone_ , _“_ taunted its ghastly voice.  Dean set his jaw and screwed his courage, just like the Bard suggested.  The first slap made him feel the worst, but then it got easier to continue—that is until Cas caught his breath and began to wail.

Cas’ delicate skin pinked, then darkened and soon Dean slowed his punishing hand, only maintaining the sting, as he lectured, “You _won’t_ put yourself in danger again, little man.  When me or Sam tell you can't do something, then it’s off-limits.  I know it sucks to not be an angel anymore, but it’s high time you accepted _you- are- not_!” The final three words garnered the hardest three spanks—and indeed the loudest cries from the tear-soaked mask of misery on Dean’s left knee.

And then Cas was again encased in Dean’s strong circle of protection, the child’s world once more one of gentle words, gentle movements—and kind, gentle hands.

“Sssssshhhhh, Lil’ Nugget, it’s over—it’s all over.  Sshhhhh, I’ve got you, Cas—could have lost you--don’t know what I would have done…Ssssshhhhh, baby, it’s ok.”  Feather-light kisses landed on the toddler’s hair, his temple, his wet cheek.  “It’s ok, now. You’re ok”

Dean stood with his little bundle—bright red at both ends—rocking him and pacing the dark, dusty room. 

His short, pudgy arms clamped tightly around Dean’s neck, Cas continued to sob like there was a prize involved, making a damp mess of the firm shoulder—slowly calmed by Dean’s deep humming, rumbling up from his chest.  He wasn’t sure of the tune, but he had heard it in the Impala one night, Dean singing along with gusto, believing Cas to be asleep.

Cas’ exposed bottom still burned, but Dean took care not put any pressure there as he carried his distressed charge around the cramped cabin, while rubbing slow, warm circles on his back.

Gradually, his tear well began to run dry, the contrite angel reduced to snuffly hiccups.

Finally able to form shaky words, little Cas voiced his one important truth, at that moment, “I was wrong, Dean.  I should have listened to you and Sam.”

 

Hugging his precious friend tightly, Dean voiced his one important truth, at that moment,

“I love you, Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just LOOK at the gorgeous fan art that reafre (http://archiveofourown.org/users/reafre/pseuds/reafre) created for me--for US.
> 
> Thank you again, reafre, it's perfect.  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/10908477
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://imgur.com/j6XAWwj)  
> 


	18. The Day the Magic Died

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas has one more dark secret...
> 
> Thankye, oh DeadMockingBirds, my love, for the usual help.

Sam parked the Impala in the garage, getting out quick and resealing the warded door.  Dean didn’t get out right away; he had spent the entire trip riding shotgun, Cas cradled in his lap, held tightly against him.  Through the miles, the child and the hunter clung to each other, Cas preferring the security of Dean over his car seat—besides, George’s body lay loosely shrouded in the back.

Dean startled at Sam’s light tap on the window, then slowly, stiffly climbed out of the Impala, boosting Cas, so little Sleeping Beauty could lay his head on his shoulder. 

“Let’s get him settled and talk to Missouri, then we can come back for George,” whispered Sam.

Dean nodded to his brother, not wanting to wake the little angel—but then the quiet of the garage shattered with Missouri’s cry of relief.

“Oh, boys!” she ran pretty fast for a big woman, placing a hand on each brother’s cheek, “I felt that you were ok, but it’s still good to see you with my two eyes.”  Missouri stroked Cas’ hair, as he stirred awake, rubbing at his eyes with two fists.  Still a bit bleary, the toddler hung his head, “It’s my fault—again. This is all my fault.”  Tears coursed down his pink cheeks and Dean moved to comfort him, but instead he reached out for Missouri.  She hugged him while he cried into her sweater and she spoke in her whisper, “If you let yourself get all tangled up in guilt, child, how are you gonna move forward and help us fight this thing?”

Cas hiccupped and told her, “But George is dead—I killed George.”

Missouri’s usual wispy voice rang clear, as she addressed all of them, “Now y’all not gonna want to hear this, but everything that happened today happened exactly how it was _supposed_ to happen. I saw what George was gonna do before you boys left.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?  We could have—“

“Died, Sam.  You _would_ have died trying to find another way—there wasn’t another way,” the psychic looked towards the car, “George, that wonderful old fool, didn’t I say he had some sorcery left in him?  He powered that sigil—and died doing it—for all of you.”

Cas was sniffing and drying his tears, but he nodded at Missouri’s words. 

Sam pulled the sorcerer’s notes from his pocket, holding up the scrawled symbol, “So this won’t work without magic—and even then, it kills the user?”

“Well, it’s the best George had come up with, with his real power so limited.”

At that, Cas looked up at Missouri. “My grace could power it and it won’t hurt me at all.”

Sam and Dean spoke over each other; Sam asked, “You know where your grace is?” while Dean shouted, “Cas, it’s too dangerous!”

“Yes, Sam, I removed it myself and hid it off Amos’ radar.  And Dean,” Cas’ hand wandered to his bottom, “I wouldn’t try to use it by myself, I’ll need your help. You taught me that.”  He seemed lost in thought, then the child wilted in Missouri’s arms, “’Cept, this vessel’s too small to hold my grace—it would burn right through it.”

They all let that sink in a minute, then Dean reached for Cas, who went right back to him. Dean considered his charge a moment, taking in Cas’ soft features; the toddler hand wrapped in his shirt, his toddler smell, the warm toddler weight in his arms—then took a deep breath and pointed out the elephant in the garage.

“Nugget, with George gone, is there any way now for you to…grow up again?”

Cas held Dean’s stare, “Well, there’s the old fashioned way,” then his lashes lowered, “I’m really not an angel anymore, huh Dean?”

Both hunters squeezed their little one, as Sam said, “You’re _our_ angel, Cas.”

Missouri cleared her throat—the no-nonsense kind of clearing—and barked, “Castiel Winchester!”

All three boys snapped to attention—Cas had never been called _that_ before. Chick-flick moment over.

Missouri pointed right between big, blue eyes, “Now, you listen to me, good— _you are an angel_ —don’t you forget it.  Now let’s get out of this garage, it’s full of loud-mouthed spirits.”

As they all went in, Dean turned to look warily around his beloved work space.  Awesome.

 

The bunker smelled good.  “Mmmmm, what did the blessed delivery man bring us?”

“Nothing, Dean.  Samuel, next time you deem your cupboards bare, take a closer look—and use your imagination.”

Dean placed Cas on a chair, as Missouri motioned, _with a wooden spoon_ for the brothers to join him.  Dean sat quickly.

She came over with a steaming pot and poured something heavenly-smelling into bowls, already set out on the table.  Cas kneeled on his chair and took a whiff of his serving, “Looks good, Miss—what is it?”

“Ain’t none of you boys ever heard of stone soup?”  Missouri joined them with her own bowl, passing around the end of a box of crackers, “

Cas stirred crackers into his soup, as he answered, “I have that book, except it’s a Disney version with Uncle Scrooge and they called it Button Soup.”

Sam slurped his spoon loudly, then said, “Well, it tastes like home, thank you, Missouri.”

Though Dean seemed to be enjoying the psychic’s makeshift meal, he still had to be Dean, “If I choke on a stone or a button, I’m suing.”

 

Cas ate steadily, uncharacteristically holding his seat.  “I like peas and carrots and tomato broth and dried onions and spices,” he told their new chef.  Missouri beamed, “Well, that’s a good thing, honey, cuz that’s just what’s in there.”

When the dishes were clean, Cas announced, “It’s time for George’s funeral, now.”

Dean shook his head, “Nugget, I don’t think you want—“

“I have to, Dean.  George died for us—for me.  I need to be part of his last rites.”

“I understand, Nugget.  Missouri, can you help us all clear our heads again?  Maybe buy us some time outside the bunker, so we can give George a hunter’s funeral?”

Nodding her head, the seer gathered the boys close together and laid her hands on them, Cas watching from Dean’s arms.   After some minutes, she took hold of Cas’ whole head and touched their foreheads together, then she stepped back, with her hands on her hips, “We got work to do.”

From his perch on Missouri’s broad hip, Cas watched the Winchesters cut logs and branches, building up the funeral pyre.  George’s body lay at her feet, carefully shrouded in a clean sheet.  It had grown dark, as the brothers carried the sorcerer to a clearing in the woods, nearly half a mile from the bunker.  They now worked by lantern light, the moon hooded by the overcast sky.  The structure finished, and George’s body laid atop the logs, Missouri carried Cas closer, “Anything you’d like to say, honey?”

Cas bit his bottom lip, thinking, then, “Thank you for everything, George.  Sorry you got killed.”

“Here, here—thanks, George,” Dean nodded to Sam, who lit the pyre and they all stood back and watched the flames claim the sorcerer’s body.

 It was late when they returned to the bunker, Sam and Dean completely drained from two days of driving, the stress of nearly losing Cas—and saying goodbye to yet another person, gone because he met the Winchesters.

“Bedtime for Bonzo,” Dean told anyone who cared, heading up the hall with a dozing little Cas on his shoulder.  Sam and Missouri passed by, pecking Cas’ hair and murmuring their good nights.

 

Cas awoke beside Dean, the hunter’s arm holding him close.  He lifted his head and squinted to focus in the dark room, but nothing seemed amiss.  Cas cuddled closer to Dean, laying his head on the hunter’s chest; he often let his friend’s steady heartbeat lull him to sleep—except tonight, there wasn’t one.  Cas began to sit up, with a start, then jumped as a match was struck beside him.  The owner of the hand holding the flame hung back in the shadows, as the dancing light played across Dean’s still form.  His green eyes were open, pinned in a death stare, freckles masked in blood splatter.  As Cas drew back in horror, the match floated along with him, lighting Dean’s slashed neck, his gutted torso, the hunter’s blood glistening everywhere.  As Cas wiped Dean’s blood from his own cheek, his breath came in panicked heaves.

The rusty hinge of a voice sounded in his ear, “Do you think you can hide them forever, Castiel?”  As the angel turned to face the archdemon, it shoved a bloody blade in his little hands, “Do you think you can hide them from _you_?”

 

“Cas! Cas! C’mon, buddy, wake up!”  Dean shook the flailing child, trying to be heard over his frantic screams.  Sam arrived, helping to hold Cas back from hurting himself, while Dean pressed the boy to come around, stroking his sweat-soaked head.  They had been through this dozens of times, but tonight, Cas’ screams contained a message, “I’m coming for you!  I’m coming for you!”

 Dean shouted back, “Leave him alone!  We’re right here, you bastard!”

“It’s the child speaking, Dean—he’s warning you, both,” Dean was about to ask Missouri what the Hell that meant, when Cas’ eyes opened wide and cried Dean’s name, tears flowing fast.  Sam lifted the wet, bawling little mess into Dean’s arms, who began their familiar nocturnal calming routine.  Missouri helped Sam with the sheets, spiriting away the dirty bundle to the washer, like it was three in the afternoon, instead of three in the morning.  The bed was fixed in no time.

Cas proved a great deal harder to fix.  He was completely inconsolable, trembling like a Chihuahua, and clutching Dean so hard, his little fists were white.  Several attempts to set Cas down to remove his wet pj’s failed, ending in even more hysterical screaming.  Dean figured the kid had to run out of tears soon—or lose his voice, whichever came first.   His poor little Nugget had cried so much, lately.  Only yesterday, he had sobbed a river from being spanked—Dean thought of something.  He began to hum, low at first, then louder, turning his mouth towards Cas’ ear, where it rested on his shoulder.  It took a couple verses, but Cas began to settle, his screams dissolving into quieter sobs. As Dean continued to hum Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Freebird,” he carried Cas from the hallway they’d been pacing into a bathroom, where he turned on the tap.  “Play it pretty for Atlanta,” Dean cooed in his little one’s ear, who was still crying, but listening to Dean “sing” the song’s long guitar solo.  Through the magic of Southern Rock, Dean was able to get Cas out of his wet clothes and into the warm bath.  Sam arrived with towels and fresh jammies, but stood silently at the door, watching his brother’s wild air guitar—and marveling at Cas’ admiration, even through his tears.  Choosing a fourteen-minute song meant that Cas was clean by its end, wrapped in a towel by Sam and on his way to being dressed when Missouri poked her head in the bathroom, welcoming them all to have some tea.

The milk had gone sour, so the adults carefully sipped their black tea, the hot drink soothing nonetheless.  Cas enjoyed the last packet of cocoa, mini-marshmallows swirling atop his treat.  He kept poking at them, then sticking his little finger in his mouth, “Ow!”

“Told ya it’s hot, be careful, hun,” but Sam’s admonishment was gentle, just glad that the little angel’s tear well had finally dried. 

Missouri leaned her elbows on the table, “This wasn’t good, what happened tonight.  That demon found another failed ward—they’re not gonna keep him out forever.”

Cas nodded, wiping his cocoa mustache, with the back of his hand, “Amos found me in my sleep, without me leaking suppressed memories.  I don’t think we’re safe in the bunker, any longer.   He knows I’m little now and he knows I’m hiding you.  We should split up.”

“No ,Cas,” Dean was dead serious, ”We’re sticking together, it’s our only chance.”

“But Dean, he’s close to finding me and if he finds me, he’ll find you.  I can—“

Dean slammed down his mug, “Cas, wherever that sentence is going, back it the Hell up—unless you want another sore backside.”

Sam looked at his older brother, brow at attention, his face reading “impress-a-shocked.”

Dean barely glanced back at Sam, pointing his finger across the map table, at the sulking toddler.  “You tried things your way, buddy, and you failed.”

Cas’ head was hung so low, it wasn’t apparent he was crying until he spoke, “A-and I g-got George k-killed.”

Missouri popped Cas onto her lap, “What did I say about that guilt, child?  It’s gonna hold you back— _all of it_.  What’s happened has happened—and you’ve been punished already.  When you gonna stop punishing yourself?”  But Cas just continued to hang his head, as she rubbed slow circles on his back.

Dean was torn; his little friend was crying—again, because of him—again, but the idea that Team Free Will was stronger apart was one he was sure Cas was wrong about.  Cas was too little, too helpless, too vulnerable—Dean had to keep him safe.

“Look, Nugget, if we have to split up, it’ll be me or Sam taking you somewhere, not you without us.  We can’t let that happen—we won’t let you get hurt.  You’re safe with us, you know neither of us would ever hurt—“

“I’ll hurt you.  I _did_ hurt you.  I _will_ hurt you.”

Sam scratched his uncombed hair, “What are you talking about, Cas?”

Missouri had her eyes closed, but they fluttered open to reveal only the whites, her irises rolled back deeply—she looked to be in pain, as she said, “Tell them, Castiel, honey, they’ll understand.  I can’t keep this for you any longer—the guilt will hold you back.”

Cas placed his chubby hand on the psychic’s chubby cheek, “Thank you for helping me, Miss,” then he turned to Sam and Dean, looking much older.

“Amos made me watch while he tortured you for the first hundred years—after that, he made me do it.”

 


	19. Thank you, John Winchester

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to take a moment to THANK ALL MY READERS--for your following, support, and amazing comments. You all seriously keep me going, I can hardly believe how many people out there are rooting for Lil' Nugget. Reading your comments is like Christmas and my Birthday and getting that thing in the mail I ordered online and thought would never come--all in one. So, thanks, you warm my cockles.
> 
> Cas is under the table...again.  
> .......................................................................................................................

Sam, Dean, and Missouri sat at the table in silence, their tea long-since gotten cold.  Cas had slipped off the psychic’s lap and taken up a spot somewhere below the Pacific Northwest, where he sat hugging his knees to his chest.  The clock ticked away, while Missouri absently tapped two fingernails along with the second hand, her eyes darting between the brothers.  Scraping his chair loudly across the floor, Dean stood suddenly, taking Cas’ cool cocoa with him to the kitchen.  The microwave dinged and Dean returned with the piping hot mug, carefully squatting by the table.  “Here ya go, Nugget,” Dean held the cocoa towards Cas, “You look like you could use a drink.”  Cas didn’t move, so Dean crawled under the map table and placed the hot cup in front of him, taking an awkward seat by the toddler’s side.  His head already ducked under the table top, Dean tried to catch his little friend’s eye, but Cas stared down at his bare feet.  Dean picked up the steaming mug and began to blow on its contents.  “You know, buddy, I did a lot of things in Hell I’m not proud of.  Didn’t feel like I had much of a choice, at the time.”

Cas didn’t answer at first, wiggling his toes, as he continued to stare, then, “Amos gave me a choice, Dean.  It was a game to him—how to hurt me the worst.”

“Doesn’t sound like you had any choice at all, Cas,” Dean offered him the cocoa, but Cas shook his head, “Angels need permission, but demons don’t.”

Dean put the drink on the floor, as Cas released his knees and turned to face him, his voice shaking, “Amos gave me a choice; either to possess me and hurt you _by my hands_ or watch while he possessed each of you and made you torment each other—I couldn’t let him do that to you, Dean—or to Sam.”

“That’s not a choice, Cas—that’s extortion,” Sam had crouched down next the table leg, looking like the enraged moose he was.  “You can’t blame yourself, hun—that sick SOB knew just what he was doing to you,” Sam snorted, completing the look.

“Sammy’s right, Nugget.  Amos is one twisted fu—jerk and he only cares about hurting you.  Buddy, me or Sam would have done the same thing, if we were in your shoes.”  Sam nodded, still seething, but trying to soften his expression, for Cas’ sake, whose tears had reappeared.  Dean gathered the tiny child in his lap, cupping his chin gently, so they could lock eyes. Unblinking, the hunter spoke slowly and deliberately, “You didn’t do anything wrong, Nugget—we don’t blame you for the sins of a demon.  You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Cas, I could never hold something like this against you.”  Cas just stared at Dean, while his tears fell.  “Neither could I, Cas,” said Sam.

From above Cuba, came Missouri’s two-cents, “I told you so, child.  The Winchesters understand—they’ve been possessed, cloned, _dead_ —and both have turned into things they never wanted to be.  Castiel, honey, your friends will always understand.”

Dean clambered awkwardly out from under the table, Cas’ face buried in his chest, little arms tight around his neck.  Sam kissed the angel’s crown and said, “Thanks for watching out for us, Cas.  You’re my best friend, too.”

As the windows revealed the first colors of dawn, the group decided to try to get what rest they could.  As Dean was settling in with an exhausted Cas, Sam knocked lightly on the bedroom door, the toddler’s sippy cup in hand.  “Thought he might want his cocoa,” Sam whispered, as little hands reached out and made grabbies.  Sam sat on the edge of his brother’s bed, sinking into the memory foam and watched Cas enjoy his treat, at last. “I kinda don’t want to leave you two, after today—after tonight.”

Dean threw back the covers, skootching himself and Cas towards the opposite edge, “C’mon in, Sammy—we haven’t done this since we were kids,” Dean chuckled through the awkwardness, as Sam slid in and cuddled up to Cas’ other side.  Cas giggled around his sippy cup, “Glad DearBear’s on the bureau, there’s no more room in this Cas sandwich.”  Before sleep, came laughter—healing laughter.

 

The whole bunker slept late, again—but they slept.  Guarded closely by his friends, Cas managed the hours nightmare-free.  The little angel woke up first, but stayed in bed, looking back and forth between the brothers, studying his friends with human eyes.  Sam Winchester had two moles on his left cheek and Dean Winchester’s nose was perfectly symmetrical. Also, Sam snored, but not loudly and Dean’s face twitched, when he dreamed—Cas felt that these things were most important to note, that morning.  As his green eyes flicked open, Dean watched Cas right back a few moments, before yawning, “Some things’ll never change, eh, Nugget?”

Missouri made oatmeal appear, seemingly out of nowhere, prompting Dean to ask, “Are you sure you’re not a witch?”  The psychic was in a good mood, chuckling at Dean and answering, “I’ll take that as a compliment, boy—now eat up.”  There wasn’t any milk, but pancake syrup stirred into the hot cereal, tasted fine.  Cas flitted around the table, taking bites when Dean was able to snag the back of his shirt and pop a spoonful in his mouth.  Soon they were all full and ready to face the day—the day consisting of research.

Each time someone would find a fact about Asmodeus, they’d read it to the others, calling him Amos.  But by late afternoon, they had found nothing useful and Cas was growing impatient.  As the tall hunter hunched forward to show the boy a passage on Amos’ angel years, Cas blurted, “He’s been inside me, Sam, I know all these things about him—and more.  It’s why I was able to tell you his whole story.  It took even Amos some effort to control an angel and it left his mind vulnerable to me.”

“Now _that_ we can use!  Dean, we’re so used to hitting the books, we’re overlooking our greatest source of knowledge.  Cas, what else can you remember?”

“As I told you before, Sam—I remember everything. What do you want to know?”

Dean cut in, “How about how much he knows about you, Cas?  Like you said, he was in you—why doesn’t he know about the bunker?  How come we haven’t heard about other hunters getting the shakedown?  You said he’s been searching for us.”

“Possessing an angel isn’t easy and Amos had to put a great deal of his power into controlling my vessel against my will.  He saw into my mind until I fought him—in the end, he won control over my body, but I was able to hide much of my memory.  The demon knew I cared for both of you and that’s all he needed.”

“Every bit of this is good, Cas—we need to know where he’s vulnerable,” Sam said, closing the useless book, “When our father taught us to hunt, he told me and Dean that everything has a weakness—find that weakness and attack it, to kill.”

“But at the factory, that jerk made it sound like he knew all your secrets, he said—“

“Demons lie, Dean.  I’m sure your father taught you that, too.”

Dean cleared his throat, “Of course he did, Nugget.  You have any idea how George’s sigil works?  I’ve never seen one banish a demon before.”

“Me neither.  It’s partly Enochian, with Latin and Norse orthography.  Reading counterclockwise, I’d say it loosely means ‘Get thee gone, evil’—but the center is Enochian for ‘mongrel’”

“Out, out, damn spot!”  Dean grinned at his own cleverness, getting looks from Sam and Missouri, but earning a prize smirk from little Cas. 

“But it needs to be powered by more than blood—George had almost enough magic left, so it took his very life force to send Amos away—to where, I don’t know.  It didn’t affect his power long, as he dream-walked last night.  It’s not a way to kill him, but powered by my grace, maybe we can weaken him.”

“Where is your grace, Cas?  Embedded in rock, like Amos’ was?”

“No, Sam—it’s hidden well, not far from here.  You mentioned your father, remember those storage units he kept?  In one, he hid _Windjina’s Box of Nothing_.”

“Ok, I’ll bite—what was in it, Cas?”

Ignoring Dean’s jab, Cas explained, “It’s Aboriginal, dating back forty thousand years—not much to look at, but the shaman that created it, made it to last.  It does what it implies, holds nothing.  Well, something, if you put it in yourself, but nothing to anyone else who opens it.  The object isn’t invisible; it simply doesn’t exist any longer on this plane—making it undetectable.”

“So, this box of Dad’s—“

“Windjina’s Box, Dean.”

“ _Windjina’s_ Box, sorry Cas, this box could have countless things in it from countless centuries of use?”

Cas nodded, “All stored on countless planes of existence.  It’s why Amos hasn’t tracked my grace—and why he couldn’t take it, even if he located the box.”

Missouri let out an impressed sigh, “Thank you, John Winchester.”

“I wonder what Dad was doing with such a powerful object?”  Sam shook his head, overwhelmed by the news.

“Maybe he put something even more valuable inside?  Guess we’ll never know, huh, Sammy?”

Sam again shook his head, then he turned to Cas, “You did a great job hiding it, but this still doesn’t solve the problem of your grace being too powerful for your vessel.”

Cas took a deep breath, “Sam. Dean.  I never thought I’d say this, but we need a witch.”


	20. Which Witchy is Which

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you don't mind a short chapter, but I edited this off a super-long one and I thought you'd might want the story to move along. Besides, Nugget's watching a movie--doesn't Nugget deserve to watch a movie?  
> As always, your comments and kudos make the sun come up--enjoy.  
> ........................................................................................................................

“Alright, thanks, man.  Let me know if you hear anything, ok?  What’s that?”  Dean covered his mouth and the bottom half of his phone, mumbling, “Miz-yu-too, Garth,” and dropped the cell on the table, defeated.

“No luck, Dean?” Sam was scrolling through his own contacts, searching for a lead Dean hadn’t followed.

“Naw, Sammy—every hunter I checked either hasn’t heard of any witch activity or just ganked a coven.  Even Garth’s got nothing and he knows everyone.”

Sam smirked, still looking at his phone, “And apparently he misses every last one of us.”

Weary from listening to Sam and Dean get frustrated over their phone calls, Cas opted instead to watch TV with Missouri.  They had settled on one of the Harry Potter movies, neither cared which one it was, but both chuckled a bit over the irony. 

Sam’s current phone conversation grew louder, “You’re kidding!  Statia?  Dead?  She was the only friendly witch in this world that owed the Winchesters a favor.  Shit.  No, thanks anyways, Don.”

“Sammy’s swearing, Miss—must’ve been the last lead,” Cas’ toddler-whisper could be easily heard from the couch to the library table.  “Yeah, Cas, she was it—I’m sorry, buddy, but we’re both out of ideas.”  Dean held his hands up to demonstrate their emptiness.

On the TV, Draco Malfoy was sneaking around Hogwarts, trying to fix a broken vanishing cabinet.  Cas shrugged his shoulders, his hands raised exactly like Dean’s.  As the little angel became absorbed in the movie, Dean smiled. In spite of their bleak situation and the dead-end afternoon, Cas was still so flipping cute.  As Sam got up to get them all some water, Dean stayed at the table, watching his Lil’ Nugget—and secretly thanking the Universe for hiding its witches today.  The thought was fleeting, however, as he raised his eyes to meet Missouri’s, staring at him intently.  The psychic’s look wasn’t accusatory—just sad.  Cas didn’t take his eyes off the screen.

Sam returned and passed out ice waters, Cas’ in his sippy cup, so he could stay reclined against Missouri and watch his movie.   Draco finally brought back a live bird through his magic cabinet and Cas’ eyes went wide.

Sam downed his liquid in three gulps, then asked, “What about another sorcerer?  George couldn’t have been the only one?”

Cas' eyes stayed glued to Hogwarts, but he answered, “There’s one in Alaska, but he’s gone insane and two each in Europe and Asia, but they’re all still too powerful to be bothered with us.  Finding George was a miracle—just enough magic, just desperate enough for money.”

“You paid him?  Where’d you get the money?”

“I was an angel, Dean.  I paid for him to move to town, to be close.  Of course, I threatened him, too.”

“Of course,” Sam was still sitting in the disappointment of another dead end, when he jumped at the sound of his phone, buzzing along the tabletop. 

“Yeah, Fitz.  Her sister?  Where is she?”  Sam scrabbled for a pen, using the corner of the closest book to jot down the information.  “Fitzy, we owe you, big time—thanks a million, man.”

Even Cas looked at Sam, waiting for the news that had the tall hunter so excited.  “Statia’s sister, Gwinn, wants to help us!  She’s grateful we spared her sister’s life and Fitzty’s ex has worked with her—says she’s on the up and up.”

“So where we going to meet the good witch?”

Sam held up the defaced book, “Check it out, Dean—“

 “She’s in Missouri,” the psychic spoke her own name before Sam could.

Cas had gone back to his movie, Dumbledore now facing the Death Eaters.  “We can pick up my grace on the way.  Everything happens how it’s supposed to happen, right Miss?”  Cas looked up at Missouri who gave him a squeeze and answered, “That’s right, Clarence—you’re gonna get your wings.”

Missouri just caught sight of the back of Dean’s shirt, as he left the room.

 

 


	21. The Last Supper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a longer chapter for you--stick with it, a lot happens.
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and kudos--you are all gifts.

Dean pressed the top on the spray can of Lysol, airing out the back seat of the Impala, while Sam rearranged the trunk.  “I’ll tell you, something, Sam.  First thing we’re gonna do when we hit the road?  A bag of fast food burgers—real greasy ones.  And I want onion rings, fries, and a shake, too.  And a Sundae.”

Sam closed the well-stocked trunk, “You’ll pop like a tick, Dean.  You spent a year not eating in Purgatory and didn’t binge like that when you got home—what’s up?”

Dean finished wiping down Cas’ car seat and looked up at his brother, answering with a shrug.

Sam followed Dean, as he made his way to the front of the car and popped the hood.  “That sounds an awful lot like a last supper to me.  Do you think Amos is too powerful for us—do you think we’re gonna lose?”

Dean shoved the dipstick back down into the oil and needlessly tightened the oil cap, avoiding his brother’s eyes.  “Either way, we’re gonna lose _something_ , aren’t we, Sammy?”

Sam and Dean just stood where they were for the next few minutes, Sam with both his hands in his front jean pockets and Dean with one hand above his head, on the hood of the Impala, staring blankly at her engine.

Missouri’s voice broke the trance, calling for them to come see something on the TV.  Dean closed the hood, wiped his hands on his pants, then scrubbed them down his face, shaking off his unwanted emotions.  Regardless, Sam put a large, reassuring hand on Dean’s shoulder, as they entered the bunker.

Missouri sat on the couch, Cas on her lap, beckoning the boys over, where they caught the end of a missing person segment.  Both hunters froze at the metal smile, the pocked chin—and the red letter jacket on screen. “…last seen three months ago, shooting baskets at a park neighboring his town’s cemetery. Besides the unprecedented black fog that was reported in the area that evening, police have no leads in sixteen year-old Jamie Fargo’s disappearance. If you have any inf—“

“When this is over, we should return his body to his family,” Cas said, after muting the TV. 

“There’s no chance we can save him?”  Sam asked Cas, but both the toddler and the psychic shook their heads, sadly. “No, Sam—Amos knew little when he escaped Hell and foolishly killed the first human he came across, possessing his dead vessel.  It’s why he’s still somewhat ignorant about the twenty-first century—had he reigned in his urge to kill and taken a live vessel, he’d know a great deal more about modern technology.”

“So presumably, the internet—maybe even public records—are foreign to him, too.  No wonder with all his powers, he hasn’t been able to find us,” said Sam.

Dean’s turn to shake his head, “That’s why he had George call us, he couldn’t use the damn phone—Asshat.”

“Asshat is right, Dean—the beginning of the broadcast said that Jamie Fargo was a computer science major,” Missourri gestured towards the news program, “The jacket he wears belonged to his older quarterback brother--he gave it to Jamie after he graduated two years ago.  Amos may be dressed like a jock, but he’s wearing a techie—a dead techie.  Asshat, indeed.”

Cas giggled a moment on Missouri’s lap, then sobered, “Either way, that body doesn’t belong to him, it belongs to the Fargos.”

As they finished packing their duffels for the road trip, Missouri dragged her suitcase from her room, “One of you boys got an extra night bag?  There’s no way I’m bringing all this.”

Sam smoothed back his hair, clearing his throat, “Are you sure you want to come, Missouri?  I mean, it’s gonna be dangerous.”

Missouri placed her hands on her hips and Dean gave a silent prayer of gratitude that he wasn’t Sam.  “Is it gonna be more dangerous for me than the three year-old?”

Cas gave a “Harrumph” from under the table.

“Well, I—“

“You what, Samuel?  You think you’re all safer travelling blind to go meet a strange witch?  Or maybe you’ve become an expert at keeping your mind clear of demon thoughts?  I guess you’ll all be super-happy sitting in gridlock traffic with your car completely uncontaminated by the psychic that woulda steered you around it.”

Sam had both his palms up in total surrender, while Dean laughed into the flap of his coat.  “Ok, Ok, Ok—I get it, I’m sorry, Missouri—we obviously need you.  Thank you for wanting to help us.”

“Hey—how come _he_ didn’t get the spoon?”

 

Missouri slid into the back seat, while Sam finished packing their bags on top of the trunk arsenal, then packed little Cas into his car seat.  Dean had gone back inside the bunker, after asking Sam to leave the back open.  About to climb into the passenger seat, Sam froze and stared as his brother emerged from the bunker, carrying the last important piece of cargo.  He watched as Dean laid the dress shirt—layered in dark suit, layered in trench coat, all on one hanger—across the trunk.  Lastly, he added a pair of black leather shoes, one filled with socks, the other a rolled up blue tie.  When Dean slammed the trunk closed, he revealed his brother staring at him, as well as two faces peering out the back window.

Taking a halted breath, Dean clapped his hands together, “Well, that’s everything.”

 

Before they left, Missouri had gathered the three boys and cleared their minds of all things Amos.  Now on the road, she helped catch their slip-ups, as minds wandered and anxiety built.  She was most helpful to Cas, teaching the boy to play what she called “Hug Buggy.”  Spotting a bright Volkswagen Beetle, the large woman engulfed little Cas in his car seat, with a triumphant cry of, “Hug Buggy red!”

While Cas giggled and craned his neck, searching for his own Bug, Dean exhaled loudly through his lips, like a horse.  “It’s _Punch_ Buggy, Cas!  You’re supposed to punch the person next to you when you see a VW, not hug them.”

“I like hugging better, Dean—Hug Buggy Tan!”  Missouri’s arm got a warm squeeze, as Dean shook his head in the rear view.  “Let them be, Dean, he’s having fun,” but Sam’s scolding only put a deeper scowl on his big brother’s face.

Not an hour out, the GPS on Sam’s phone took them off the highway and through two small towns, before heading them down a dirt road towards a series of long, fenced-in buildings. Eventually, the fence ended in a small parking lot with a front office.  Getting out and stretching their legs, the brothers then turned to their passengers, Sam giving Missouri a hand, while Dean unbuckled Cas.  There was an older man at the desk, watching an even older TV, hanging on the wall, high in the corner.  He had an unlit cigar between his teeth, and wore a cap on his head backwards, the plastic mesh across his forehead.  He stood with some hesitation to meet the men, followed closely by the dark lady, holding tightly to the child. “What can I do fer ya?” asked “Mick,” according to the patch sewn on his pocket. 

Dean reached out his hand, offering an ID, “We’d like access to eight fifty-one, please,” without missing a beat, Dean added, “I’m John Winchester.”

Mick looked carefully at the ID, then at Dean, who looked back at him with practiced calm.  Taking the soggy-ended cigar out of his mouth, the man squinted an eye at Dean and chuckled, low.  Dean stood stone-faced.  Mick handed him back the ID and turned to unlock a cabinet behind him.  “John Winchester.  You still live in Kansas, do ya, Winchester?”  As the the man searched the cabinet, Dean glanced at Sam, “Yeah, sure do.  Born and raised in Lawrence.”  Sam said nothing.

Mick’s back was still turned, as he asked, “How’re the kids, John?  Must be growed up by now…let me see…” Mick closed and locked the cabinet, turning to face Dean, who worked harder to maintain his composure.  “Sam and—er _Dean_ , was it?”  Dangling over the hunter’s hand, the key’s tag read eight fifty-one.  Dean nodded and reached up to grasp the key, looking the older man in the eye, “They’re both fine, Mick.  You should see them behind a pistol, neither of them can miss.”

Mick let the key go easily and let out a tired sigh, “I’ve seen you shoot, Dean—at Bobby’s—and you’re right.  If I can ask, how’d your old man go?”

Sam finally spoke, “Demon.”

“Well, shit,” said Mick, sinking back in his chair.  “He said if you boys showed up, he’d be dead, but I was still hoping.”

“Mick’s a hunter, boys—your Daddy trusted him,” Missouri had stepped forward, still clutching Cas’ hand, “But he didn’t always.  Idaho wasn’t one of your proudest moments, was it, Sir?”

Mick’s jaw dropped wide enough to lose his cigar, “Missouri Moseley? Are you fu—“

The man got a dose of Missouri throat clear. Mick glanced at Cas and continued, “—freakin’ kidding me?  And Ma’am, you _are_ as good as they say!”

Dean rolled his wrist, his patience running thin, “I can shoot, Missouri’s awesome, Dad’s dead—can you take us to his storage unit?”

His smart mouth too close to Missouri, Dean got a cuff on the back of his head, rubbing at it as Mick led them all out towards the row of buildings.  “I take it you boys know what you’re looking fer.” Unchaining the gate, the old hunter ushered the group to a sun-faded golf cart, where Sam and Missouri took the back seat and Dean slid into shotgun position beside Mick, Cas settling on his lap.  Turning the key, the man smiled down at Cas, asking, “He yours?”  Cas looked up at Dean, as the hunter squeezed his little tummy and answered, “He’s ours,” glancing over his shoulder.

They all got out in front of the garage-type door marked eight fifty-one, but Mick didn’t allow Dean to open it right away.  “Now I know you boys are hunters and have seen a lot, but I gotta warn you—your father’s words—don’t touch anything except what you came fer.”

Dean nodded, as he opened the padlock and lifted the heavy door, squinting into the darkness.  From Missouri’s hip, Cas spoke up, “There were booby-traps, but I disarmed them, Dean.”

Mick looked around at the group, “He’s yours, eh?”

Sam stepped passed the man, guiding Missouri and Cas into the murky unit with a flashlight, “That’s right.  _Ours_.”

Inside was a bit sparser than Dean had imagined, mostly empty shelves, piles of books, and—no way.  Dean glanced back at Mick, then lifted the dust-covered frame carefully.  First, he blew on the glass, then wiped at it with his hand, revealing his Mother’s grinning face, lace hanging loosely about her blond hair. Sam stepped close, illuminating Mary Winchester’s wedding portrait.  “How?  The fire—“

“Your Dad told me about that one, how they had a fight right after the wedding over money.  They couldn’t afford all their pictures, so they only had a small album made.  Your Dad promised your Mom that someday he’d be able to buy the rest.  Well, you two were born and it was never a priority—til after the fire.  By then, the photographer had retired, but managed to find that one shot in his old inventory.  It was the first thing he put in here.”

“She was beautiful, boys,” Missouri held Cas higher to see the black and white photo.

“Your Mother was very pretty,” Cas said, leaning his head against Dean’s shoulder. 

Dean patted the warm little head, “Thanks, buddy,” then he seemed to realize where they were again, “Where’s that original box?”

“ _Ab_ original box, Dean.  It’s in that cabinet.”

They all followed Sam’s flashlight to a low, two-doored cabinet.  Swinging it open, they discovered devil’s traps painted inside, the shelves lined with salt, and what appeared to be a hex bag, lying beside a plain, stone box.  Sam trained the beam on the small, leather pouch, “Cas, what’s that?” 

Missouri had set the boy on his feet to peer inside the cabinet and he reached a pudgy little hand in to retrieve the bag, “It’s harmless, only works on witches.  John guarded the box against the Supernatural creatures he’d encountered, at the time—and set traps here for humans, too.  I nearly lost my vessel’s head when I tripped the first one, but found the rest, once I knew what I was looking for.”

“So, is it safe to touch it—the box, I mean?”

“You’ll have to pick it up, Dean; it’s too heavy for me now.  But—don’t open it.”

Dean handed Mary’s picture to his brother and lifted the stone square off the shelf.  It looked thoroughly unimpressive, just a grey, stone block.  There wasn’t even anything holding the lid on, as it seemed to simply rest on top.  Dean stood with the box, looking down at Cas, “Anything else we need?”

The little angel shook his head and they started for the door, but Sam paused when his flashlight beam fell on several items hanging from hooks, high on the ceiling.  “Hey, Mick, what are those?”

Mick seemed to tense up, “Y-your Dad brought those here years after he opened the unit.  He said they’re cursed and not to be touched.  See that key?  It’s supposed to open any door, any lock, but you leave it in a keyhole, you’ll be locked on the other side of it, forever.  Said the short sword made the user invincible—but you have to always hold it, if you put it down, you can never win again.”  Mick shook himself, obviously spooked. He went on, with a nervous laugh, “Don’t know if I ever believed that stuff, but I’ve never touched anything up there, either.”

The group squinted, stepping back into the daylight.  The storage unit and it’s questionable contents locked, they all piled back into the golf cart, it’s seats hot from the noonday sun. 

Back in the office, they said their goodbyes, Sam and Dean each shaking Mick’s hand, while the old hunter kissed the back of Missouri’s and tussled Cas’ hair.  “Take care of yourselves, boys.  Hope whatever’s in that box helps you gank whatever it is you’re up against.”

Dean spoke without thinking, “It’s an _arch_ demon,” enjoying the way Mick’s jaw fell, once again losing its cigar. 

Sam stopped his brother from spilling any more dangerous information, “Thanks for everything, Mick, we gotta go.  And thanks for this,” Sam waved his Mother’s picture.

Back on the highway, Dean drove another hour when he saw food/gas/lodging signs, “Who’s hungry?”

“Me!” The whole car chimed, Dean included.

The Impala pulled up to the drive-through and Dean ordered what Sam called his “heart attack in a bag,” leaning back while Sam asked for something green.  Missouri duplicated Sam’s order, plus a large fry—then Dean called back, “What’ll it be, Nugget?”

“I’ll have what you’re having, Dean.”

As Sam sputtered his protest, Dean leaned out the window and called into the speaker, “Did you get all that?”  As the adolescent voice repeated the large order, the speaker squeaked, distorting some of his words.  “Will that be all?” screeched the weather-worn speaker, “Please, drive around.”

Dean drove towards the first window, shifting his hip to pull out his wallet.  He let the Impala roll slowly, as he carded through the bills, his eyes down, when Missouri suddenly shrieked, “Drive, Dean! Drive! It’s him, go!”

As he burnt rubber out of parking lot, Dean’s passengers all stretched their necks around, to see if they were being followed. They weren’t.

“He toying with us,” said Cas, settling down in his car seat. 

“How the Hell did he find us?  Any of you been thinking demon thoughts?”

“He knows where we’re going, Dean—this is a trap.” Missouri’s news brought silence inside the car, its motor rumbling along.  Four stomachs rumbled right along with it.


	22. Just Say No

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments--so glad Cas' outfit garnered so many feels.  
> There's more talk of Big/Little Cas here...and something Cas has been quiet about.  
> Enjoy some sweet Nuggetty goodness, with a side of witchy angst.  
> ...................................................................................................................

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit—I’m hungry!” The hunter slammed his fist against the steering wheel.

Sam tried to calm his brother, "Dean, we need to get off the road, somewhere way out of our way, where we can regroup and figure this out.” 

Cas lowered his eyes, his little hands folded on his belly, “I’m hungry too, Miss.”

“I know, baby.  Wish I could make you Stone Soup outta that box in the trunk.”  Missouri earned a giggle from her backseat companion.

They left the GPS on, being sure to travel far off their intended route and after two more hours, Dean pulled into a dusty little town, without fast food logos on the exit ramp sign.  They were all hungry and road weary, but little Cas had begun whining miles ago, his usual frustration with his toddler vessel magnified by his empty stomach, the long hours in the Impala—and perhaps his proximity to his grace.  The little angel had done a bang-up job of not letting on to Dean, but the moment the hunter had picked up Windjina’s Box, the angel could feel his grace calling to him—even from the far off dimension where the box had stored it.  At any rate, Cas was now one hundred and seventy-five percent done with being in his car seat.  As the Impala finally stopped outside a roadside diner, little hands pulled, twisted, and finally punched at the nylon straps trapping him in toddler Hell, until Missouri shushed then released the boy.  As Sam got out, so did Cas, toppling onto the sidewalk, landing on his hands and knees.  Sam crouched and helped his little friend up, wiping the dirt from his scraped palms and planting a kiss on each one.  No dice, Cas began to cry, “I’m hungry and we can’t go see the witch who can fix me and now my hands hurt and I gotta pee!”  Before Cas was finished with his list of complaints, Dean had scooped him up from behind to carry him, as they all headed towards the diner—and the heavenly aroma it was giving off. 

“Easy, Nugget, let’s take care of your bladder and your stomach, then we’ll figure out what we’re gonna do about the witch,” Dean patted Cas’ back, as they headed to the little boys’ room, leaving the others to get a table.  “Coffee, Sam.  And get him some chocolate milk.”

Food definitely helped to soothe the savage little angel, as well as his companions.  After a week of eating whatever could be brought in a box or bag to their door, Sam especially appreciated digging in to fresh greens, while Dean got his cheeseburger—with all the accessories—and ordered the same for Cas.  Finished with her sandwich, Missouri picked at Cas’ excessive fries and said, “I’m not completely sure, but Gwinn, our witch, could be dead.  Something doesn’t feel right.”

Sam took a swig of coffee, “He got to her first then—but how?”

“Like I said, she _could_ be dead, but I’m positive that your friend Fitzy is—so sorry.  It may not have even been him who called you, Sam.”

“He’s found a way to track hunters, one’s who know you,” said Cas, sitting forward in his booster seat, to look at both brothers.

“Dammit! That’s most of them—wait, Cas, what I said to Mick, you think that’s how he found us, on the road?” Dean asked, still stuffing fries in his mouth.

Cas just nodded, as the waitress cleared some of their plates.  Dean kept his, still working on his onion rings and asking for a minute to look at the dessert menu.  Sam just stared at his brother, wondering if the diner carried those puke bags from airplanes.

“Sam, Dean, turn off the GPS on your phones—I think our demon is learning.  We should try to call Gwinn.  Let me do the talking—I’ll know if it’s her.”

Dean shared his pie a la mode with Cas, feeding him bites across the table, while Sam marveled at their bottomless pits.  They paid, all used the restrooms and met up outside, where Sam dialed the witch.  Taking the phone, Missouri greeted the tense “Hello” on the other end brightly.  “Gwinn, honey, my name’s Missouri and I’m travelling with the Winchesters,” the psychic nodded and mouthed that Gwinn was alive.

Through the speaker, the witch’s voice sounded nervous and halting, as she asked, “Where are you?  Thought you’d be here by now.”

“We’re on our way, honey.  Took a bit of a detour—you know we have a little one and they’ve got little bathroom needs.”

Cas folded his stubby arms and huffed, so Dean patted his head and whispered, “Easy, big guy.”

The witch spoke in earnest, “So, you _are_ coming?”

Missouri kept her voice light, “Oh yes, we’ll be along tonight. But Gwinn, honey—don’t answer your door for anybody else—y’hear? Anyone wants to _come in_ , you say no.  Understand?”

“O-Ok.”

Missouri closed her eyes, “You just say no, you can do that.”

There was silence, then the woman’s voice came stronger, “Ok, I will.”  The phone beeped and Dean immediately asked, “What’s with the Nancy Reagan talk?”

“He’s been there, threatened her—he left her to look for us, when we didn’t show up on time, but she’ll summon him as soon as we do.”

“So what about the door bit?”

Missouri answered Dean’s question, but crouched down and addressed Cas, “Child, you were right—demons lie.  Amos lied to you about making a choice, he tricked you into giving him permission.”

Cas put his palm on his forehead, “He needs permission to possess a vessel, since his power comes from grace—he’s not one hundred percent demon. That’s why he killed his vessel.”

Sam offered Missouri a hand to help her up, “This is really big, a demon who can’t possess us at will…I wonder if he can be exorcised?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” said Dean, scooping Cas up to carry him back to his dreaded car seat.

“What else did you feel from Gwinn, Missouri?”

“She’s terrified, Sam.  That demon threatened someone she loves—he perfected that trick torturing poor Castiel.  Not sure what he wants with her, except to trap us—and maybe to keep Cas small.”

Dean tickled Cas’ belly around his seat buckle to make up for strapping him back in.  After he closed the door, he turned to Sam, “If Cas’ vessel can’t hold his grace, do you suppose Giant Asshat can fit in there? I don’t think he counted on George’s death; he might want the witch just to make Cas big, so he can control him,” Dean scratched the back of his head as he headed for the driver’s side, “At least we know where we can find him.”

All three adults got in and the Impala pulled out onto the main road.

Clearing his throat with a cough, Dean sang “Hi-ho, hi-ho, into a trap we go…”

And despite the gravity of their situation, Dean earned a giggle from little Cas.


	23. It wants to Come Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another shorter chapter, where they're still on the road--see if those of you in the know can spot my little send up to Big Daddy Dean, by DeadMockingBirds.
> 
> Only 4 more chapters to go!

The night was dark and still, as the Impala turned off the exit into—

“Are you freakin’ kidding me?  The witch lives in _Cass_ , Missouri?”  Dean was both addressing the psychic and naming the state, but directed the question towards his brother.  Sam shrugged in way of an apology, “Surprise!  Weird, huh?”

“It’s not weird—we’re supposed to be here,” Cas perked up, having been dozing up until Dean raised his voice.

“What happened to Team Free Will, Cas?”  Dean asked his rearview mirror.

The toddler rubbed at his sleepy eyes, “Remember, Dean, I’ve been to the future, so certain things had to happen to get me there.  We still have a choice how we act and just knowing the future—“

“We’ve already made changes,” Missouri finished.

“You think he knows we’re here?  I mean, until we contact Gwinn, he should still have trouble finding us, right?”  Sam asked the psychic, over his shoulder.

“I’m not sure, Sam.  It feels…heavy here—and uncertain.  Cas is right, our choices are important—we need a plan.”

 

They stopped at a coffee shop for drinks and snacks to go, after using the facilities.  Dean chose the place because its drive-through swung way around back, it’s parking lot situated behind it, deep off the road.  They sipped and munched on pastries, while Sam sat amazed that Cas and his brother could still fit anything in their guts of steel.  Covered in buttery flakes, Cas spoke through his mouthful, “If there was a way to contact Gwinn, without Amos tracing us, we’d have the element of surprise.”

Missouri wiped the grease from the toddler’s face, “Well, I’m not a long-distance telepath, child.  I need some sort of contact—even a phone call, but calling her from this close is too risky.”

Dean reached behind himself and pulled out his phone, “You mean, if _she_ called _us_ , you might be able to send her a hoodoo message, under the radar?”

Missouri gave a long-suffering sigh, “I am not a witch—any ‘hoodoo’ will come from her, not me.  I am a psychic—and if your short-term memory serves you, boy, you’ll remember—I’m a _damn good one_.”

Cas giggled crumbs down his chin, as Dean stammered and backpedaled, “I never said you weren’t, M—Ma’am.  Sorry, I just meant you two could, uh, connect, if I could get her to call us.”

Missouri settled back a bit with her apple tart, asking, “And how are you gonna do that, without putting another hunter in danger?”

“Well, maybe Asshat won’t be able to track a hunter who’s not human—“ Dean made eye contact with Sam and they both said, “Garth.”

The messy treats finished, Dean spoke into his speaker phone, “Yeah, Garth, just tell her we need to talk, try to throw the word help in there a few times, without being obvious _we’re_ offering help.  Remember, something’s most likely listening in and we need subtlety.”

Garth’s twangy little voice rang back, “You got it, Dean—subtlety’s my middle name.”

“No—no it’s not, Garth, it’s Francis.  We mean it, all our lives are at stake,” Sam’s voice was serious, but he still smirked at the scrawny Lycanthrope. 

“Got it, Sam, I can do this—wolf’s honor.  Miss you guys like crazy.”

Sam’s smile widened, as he looked at Dean, “We miss you too, Garth—good luck and thanks.”

 

The call hung up and they waited.  Dean turned the radio on and as a bouncy pop song ended, the DJ came on with a local news update, “…mysterious black cloud was spotted again, downtown, just west of the highway.  Authorities are warning folks to steer clear of the smoke, not sure if it’s some sort of terrorist attack—the sheriff speculates it could be some kind of germ warfare, though—“  Dean clicked it off, “Damn! He’s searching for us!”

“Clear your minds, all of you, like I showed you.  Stop thinking about him, it calls him.”

The car went silent, as they all meditated.  Silent that is, except for a light scratching sound.  Dean opened one eye and turned around to find Cas _drawing_ on the back door of his baby, with a worn piece of chalk.  “What?  Really, Cas? There?”

Cas looked up from the triangular ward he had scrawled on the leather, “Sorry, Dean.  I drew the others under the frame, on the manifold, oil pan, and along the pipes, but thought we could use some extra protection.”

Before Dean could further gripe, Sam cut in, “Thanks, hun, we need all the protection we can get,” then to his brother, “It’ll wash off, Dean.  Let our angel do what he does best.”

Just then, Dean’s phone rang, its vibrations crawling it across the dash.  The hunter handed it to Missouri, who again answered cool as a cucumber.

“Gwinn, are you alright?  Uh-huh, almost. Just close your eyes and we’ll be there.  Yes, that’s right, sweetie,” the psychic’s voice grew deep and slow—hypnotizing, “just close them, it’ll be ok.”

Without the witch on speaker phone, the boys all stared at Missouri, waiting for her next response, but she only closed her own lids and slowed her breathing.

Suddenly, dark eyes grew wide and Missouri’s voice grew louder, “Gwinn, it’ll be ok—I promise.”

As she ended the call and handed Dean back his phone, Missouri shook her head, “He— _it_ has her teenage daughter, lured her in with its vessel. It’s how he got the jump on her; Gwinn is a powerful witch, boys.  She’s not only got the power to change Cas back, he could have used her to de-age in the first place.”

Cas looked at his seat buckle, “I’m not fond of witches, Miss.”

“Well this one is _the_ one to help us.  I showed her we can save her daughter, but I had to make her understand that if that demon wants Cas big, she’s gotta keep him small—and if it wants him little, she’s gotta grow him up, quick.  We still don’t know its plans.”

Sam watched his brother, as the psychic spoke.  The older hunter looked like someone had doused him in ice water, but pulled himself together enough to say, “Right—don’t give Asshat what he wants.  Speaking of what he wants, are you sure your grace is still in Windy’s Box, Cas?”

The little angel didn’t bother correcting Dean, “Yes, I can feel it—right now.”

“It wants to come home,” Missouri stated, flatly.

Again, the Impala was silent.

 


	24. Missouri Went to College

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally one super-long chapter, bringing us to and through the climax of the story, but I chose to split it--because of reasons. Malevolent, capricious, authoritative reasons.
> 
> Someday, you'll thank me--or not.  
> Either way, hold onto your butts, as it's gonna be a wild ride.  
> ...........................................................................................................

Sam’s head popped up from behind the open trunk, as he swung the duffel bag onto his shoulder, handing Dean the ancient stone box.  Sam had switched out most of the weapons he normally carried for exclusively holy ones--anything that might be effective against a demonic entity with a heavenly birthright. The bag hung low on his shoulder, heavy with blessed liquids.  He slung Cas’ clothes over his other shoulder.

Dean stored Ruby’s knife and Cas’ angel blade in his coat—and buckled on a leather holster, holding a third blade. Then the hunter used his free hand to lift the little angel out of his car seat, swinging him onto his hip.  Missouri was armed only with a rosary, she’d wrapped tightly around one hand.

The four made their way on foot towards the address, about a block away.  Gwinn opened her front door to a heavy-set black woman, dressed in a patterned top, with long, flowing sleeves.  The psychic and the witch stood on either side of the threshold a moment, considering one another, then Missouri whispered, “I promise.” And Gwinn nodded, stepping aside to let them all in.  As Dean stepped into the witch’s house, he placed a soft kiss on his little friend’s forehead.  Smiling sweetly, Cas kissed his friend back, on his stubbled cheek, then leaned his head against the hunter’s shoulder, “Love you too, Dean.”

The dark-haired witch led them into her living room, encouraging them to sit.  Sam laid Cas’ suit and coat beside the boy, the contrast in their size quite obvious.  Gwinn didn’t say much, so Sam began, “We really appreciate you seeing us, Gwinn.  I was sorry to hear about your sister.”

Gwinn nodded sadly, then shrugged, “Guess she trusted the wrong hunter.”

There was an awkward silence, then the whole group turned, as Cas asked, “Can you reverse my age spell?  Make me big again?”

Gwinn stood and moved to a shelf on the far side of the room, “I sure can, it’s just a matter of the right recipe—and the right magic.”  She took some items from a bag on the shelf, along with a brass bowl and a sharp-looking knife, carrying the paraphernalia back to the coffee table.  Removing the woven table runner, Gwinn revealed a pentagram, surrounded by symbols new to the hunters.  The bowl placed in the circle’s center, the witch filled it with the various items, mumbling in Latin as she swirled them together with a long bone. “Now, little man, if you’ll remove the hex bag in your pocket, I can help you.”  Dean opened the worn bag and sprinkled its questionable contents into a floor plant, by the couch. “Sorry ‘bout that—we had to be sure.”

Picking up the knife, the woman headed towards the door they had entered, “I’ll be right back—don’t touch anything.”

Dean turned to his brother, “What—she couldn’t have done this before we got here?”  Sam shrugged, frowning.

“She’s stalling, Dean.  Amos is on his way,” Missouri sat up a little straighter to deliver the news.

“Showtime,” said Dean, squeezing his Nugget a little closer on his lap and gripping onto the stone box.

Sam stood as Gwinn returned, a small glass bowl of blood resting in her hands, both so bloody, it was difficult to tell where it was coming from.  As the tall hunter took a step towards the bleeding witch, her face contorted, “Run! He’s coming! I’m sorry! He has my—“

But the witch’s words were drowned out by her living room picture window shattering in and the rushing sound of dense, black smoke, billowing into the room.  The thick column pooled in the center of the room and formed a human shape—gradually fleshing into an actual human, as it manifested into its ex-teenager vessel.  It smiled—yuck.

Sam pulled Gwinn close to him, his large hand keeping pressure over the wound she had made in her own forearm.  Dean was on his feet, keeping Cas behind him on the couch, the toddler barely hanging on to the heavy magic box.

Dean drew the blades from his jacket, spinning the angel blade with flare, then pointing them both at the demon, “Let the witch’s daughter go, she isn’t part of this.”

The flash of braces and sarcastic snicker became quickly preferable to the caustic, vinegary voice that followed, “You’re all a part of this, like it or not.  Your _angel_ causes pain to everyone he touches.”

Cas had to resist the urge to answer back, to throw accusations—to react.  He had promised Dean he would do as he was told and now, in their eleventh hour, Cas wouldn’t let his final choice of free will be to disobey his friend.  He stayed where he was, becoming smaller on the couch, behind Dean.

Missouri had made her way over to Sam and Gwinn and tore off one of her sleeves to bandage the girl’s arm.  Leaning close, she whispered to the witch, then stepped away. 

“Well, if I heard it correctly, you yourself have been touched by an angel— _Asshol-eus_.”

The demon answered the hunter with nauseating laughter, “What’s the matter, Dean?  Jealous?”

As the teenager moved closer, the hunter gripped the weapons tighter, retorting Dean-style, “Is that supposed to be a comeback, or something?  Cuz it helps a lot if they make sense.”

Both blades suddenly left Dean’s hands, sticking into the wall behind the archdemon.  As Dean reached towards the weapon at his hip, it flew from its sheath, singing a metallic note—its handle landing firmly in Amos’ hand, while he flicked the other. “Well, shit,” said Dean, just before he was flung to the side, away from Cas. Books pelted the hunter’s body, as he bounced off a solid wood hutch—with a sickening crunch.  Sam called out to his brother, who lay dazed on the hardwood floor, his body in an unnatural heap.  Cas stared at his injured friend a moment, in horror—then did exactly as Dean had told him.  The little angel took his box and dove for cover, easily hiding under his old clothes.

At Sam’s cry, the demon turned his attention, catching sight of him reaching into the duffel.  His six-four frame sailed just past the demon and hit the wall, with another loud crunch.  As Sam sunk down the wall, stunned, his duffel fell free of his shoulder—and began leaking viscus liquid onto the floor.

Gwinn’s voice suddenly rang out loudly, the Latin spell she’d been uttering under her breath coming to a crescendo, as she poured her blood into the bowl, then waved her crimson palms in circles.

The archdemon spun on the witch, flinging out a hand, “ _Not_ until _I tell you to_!” his voice boomed. As Gwinn fell to the floor, her mouth was suddenly— _gone_. She clawed at the tight skin where her lips had always been, as Missouri scrambled to her side, smoothing back her hair and trying to calm the frantic girl.  “I promise, it’ll be alright, honey, I promise.” 

Asmodeus advanced on the two women, looking like he just won the big, cardboard check from Publisher’s Clearinghouse.  Missouri turned on her knees to face him, shielding the mouthless witch and holding out the rosary, “Get back, devil!” she warned the creature, her chin held high.

The archdemon chuckled at the woman’s bravery, “And what are you supposed to be to this group of losers? The maid?”

Missouri shrank back a moment, glancing behind her, then stated, “I’m the fucking psychic who went to college!” She told Amos, reading out loud the Latin that Gwinn had scrawled in her own blood, on the floor behind her.

 

Suddenly, the room was filled with blazing light.


	25. What's in the Box?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's the exciting...well, not conclusion, not yet. There's still some frayed ends.  
> BUT, I'm pretty sure this is what you wonderful people have all stuck around for (well, this and Lil Nugget mooching Dean's pie).
> 
> Thank you to Skylark31--she knows why. 
> 
> Get yourself a warm, soothing drink and something soft to cuddle, cuz here we go.  
> .............................................................................................................

Everyone shielded their eyes against the brightness, except Amos, who nonetheless backed away from its source, until he stood by Sam’s battered frame.  As the light faded, the trench-coated figure standing barefoot by the sofa glanced down at his business suit, closing the second-highest button on his dress shirt.  However, there was no time for niceties, as Castiel’s very adult, gravelly voice shouted, “Now, Sam!”

The hunter flicked a Zippo and dropped it on the moistened floorboards, where it sparked a glorious blaze around the pair of white Chuckie Taylor’s standing there.

As the holy fire crackled around the archdemon, the creature at last seemed taken aback.  Amos narrowed his eyes at Cas, “You believe you can hold me in here, forever?  You’re as human as they are, _Cas-ti-el,_ ” the name rolled off his tongue like a bitter tonic, “you can’t possibly outlast me.”

Cas glanced down towards the box—and Amos noticed immediately.

“Do you think me helpless in here? I am an arch _demon_ and I exist only to cause pain!” 

On the floor across the room, Dean had begun to stir, moaning.  The hunter clutched at his middle, then suddenly all four of his limbs shot out, spread eagle.  Already broken bones twisted and snapped, as Dean let out a scream of utter agony.

“Deeean! No! Stop! Here, Asmodeus, you can have it—“Castiel rushed towards the demon with the box, his human arm easily reaching across the flames, “it contains my grace.”  Taking the square of stone, Amos closed his eyes, sensing its contents.  “Do with it what you will,” said Cas, in earnest. The demon finally waved his hand dismissively and Dean’s body relaxed—though he continued to whimper in pain.  “Dean!” Sam was on his feet now, making his way across the room to his brother’s side.

“You weak, pathetic, _feeling_ fool!” the demon spit at Castiel, flipping up the lid the box, which stayed attached, as if on an invisible hinge.  Reaching inside, the demon’s shock registered almost comically.  “Empty! Where is it? I can feel its power—what have you done?”

Cas shrugged the shoulders of his trenchcoat, in a very human way, “Don’t know what you mean, _arch-_ de-mon,” his voice dripped with mockery, “I put it in there myself.”

The demon was too busy opening and closing the box to notice that Sam, cradling his brother’s head in the corner, had begun an exorcism.

“ _Exorcizamus te, Omnis Immundus Spiritus…”_

Within his flaming prison, the teenage vessel jerked in its letter jacket.  Still, the demon inside was committed to figuring out the box’s secret.

From her place beside the silent witch, Missouri joined in, still clutching her rosary, “ _Omnis Satanica Potestas, Omnis Incursio Infernalis Adversarii…”_

Again, the demon twitched, violently. Asmodeus’ head snapped up and his face contorted in pain—then it relaxed into a huge, metallic grin, as he began to laugh.  “You _humans_ think I can be simply exorcised? Sent back to Hell, like a bad, little demon?”

Castiel’s voice boomed the next part of the Latin and the demon raised a hand over his head, twisting his wrist slowly.  Sam, Dean, Missouri, and Gwinn all writhed on the floor, as their bodies contorted grotesquely.  Screams filled the room. 

Rushing as close to the holy fire as he dared, Cas held up his palms, imploring the monster inside, “Stop! Stop it! I’ll show you how the box works!  I’ll _give you_ my grace…but _only_ if you stop hurting them!”

Amos hesitantly lowered his hand and the agonized cries turned to moans.  Cas reached once again across the flames, towards the box, which the demon swiftly held out of his reach.  “Uh-uh-uhhh, angel.  You will _tell_ _me_ how it works.”

“Cas motioned over his shoulder, “First, you fix them.”

Castiel stared into the archdemon’s eyes, as only Castiel could, until at last it snapped its fingers and most of the room grew quiet.  As Sam sat up stiffly, Dean continued to groan, his limbs splayed out in a way that was just _wrong_.  “Dean too,” Cas growled, again meeting the demon’s grey eyes, which flicked to black, as it said, “Your boyfriend’s collateral,” Dean’s own blade flew at him and lodged itself deep in the hunter’s leg.  Sam could only hold his brother, as he once again roared in pain.

The inhuman abomination smiled widely at Castiel, “Now _tell me.”_

Cas seethed at the teenager with the smug, wiry grin, then removed something from his coat pocket, “First, you’ll need the key,” he said, reaching his arm again inside the circle.  As the demon stepped closer and snatched its prize, Castiel swung his other arm, flinging a glass bottle at its feet, where it shattered and sprayed holy oil up the vessel’s legs.  “What?” was all the archdemon managed to say, as Cas grabbed the letter jacket and pulled its wearer into the fire.

The teenager went up like a Roman Candle.  Windows splintered, as the demon inside screeched its pain and panic.

Cas shouted, “Finish it!”

In unison with Sam and Missouri, Cas recited the final words of the exorcism, “ _Te Rogamus, Audi Nos!”_  adding one more word, “Subsisto,” then snatched back Windjina’s Box from the engulfed creature, singeing both his hands and forearms.  Stepping back, Cas watched as the black smoke poured through expensive orthodontics, past the acne, above the letter jacket, to swirl and churn under the low ceiling. “Stay, demon,” Cas told the smoke.  From the corner, Dean coughed out a blood clot.  Sam tried desperately to comfort his brother, as Cas called, “Hang in there, Dean. This is the end of Voldemort.”     

Cas opened the box and a bright blue glow shone on his face.  Standing under the roiling fog, trapped above him, Cas reached in and withdrew the luminous vile.  Looking once more at his dear friends, his caretakers—his family—Castiel gulped down his grace.

Dean struggled to lift his head as Cas’ whole body glowed first blue, then white, the piercing blue phosphorescence settling in his eyes—while huge, shadowy wings rose from his shoulders.  The brightness was almost too much to bear, but neither Winchester, nor Missouri or the maimed witch could look away from the awesome spectacle of power.

Slowly, the radiance dissipated and Castiel, Angel of the Lord, raised his eyes to his enemy.  Turning the stone box around, he revealed George’s sigil scratched under the lid, in chalk.  The angel drew blood from his palm with Gwinn’s knife and called towards the smoky archdemon, “Hey! Assmos!” then slammed his bloody palm on the sigil.  The black column made a sound not unlike a speeding train as it filed neatly into the ancient box, the lid slamming down behind it.

“Draco Malfoy’s a genius,” mused Cas as he carefully placed the box on the coffee table, then knelt beside the distressed witch.  With a glowing hand over her face, Cas encouraged Gwinn to speak, “Th-thank you,” she managed, opening and closing her jaw with a grateful smile, while marveling at her healed arm. “Amy’s fine, honey, she’s been locked in a janitor’s closet, at her high school,” Missouri reassured the girl.  Then eyeing the innocent-looking box, “You sure it can’t get out of that little thing?” 

“Not unless I let him out—which I won’t. And even I can’t do that, once he tries to use that key—which he will.”  Cas waved his hand and the holy fire went out, with nary a burn mark on the floor, revealing Jamie Fargo’s still, charred body.

“Cas! Dean needs you!”

Cas was at Dean’s side with a thought, shushing the hunter gently, “I’ve got you, Dean,” as he lay both hands on his broken body. The cursed blade disappeared, as well as Dean’s leg wound, while his body realigned itself.  After the glow faded, Cas’ brow furrowed.  The angel turned to Sam, “That sigil took a lot of power—Dean’s not one hundred percent yet, but he’s out of danger.  I can heal him completely once I’ve rested—but he may still be in some pain.”

Despite his own bumps and bruises, Sam smiled big and pulled the angel in for a hug, “It’s good to have you back, hu—er, buddy.”  Cas returned the familiar hug, marveling over their relative sizes.  “I never left, Sam.”

“C-Cas?”

The angel leaned over Dean, still lying on the floor. “Hey, Cas—Castiel,” Dean reached up weakly to touch Cas’ strong jaw, as green eyes met blue.  “Hey there, Nugget… _Assmos_? Where’d you get Assmos?”

Cas cradled his friend’s body, lifting him up, bridal-style. He gave Dean his best crooked Castiel smile, “You talk in your sleep, Dean.”


	26. Work to Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter left, my darlings.  
> Hope with all my hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Please let me know, as your comments are like extra jimmies I didn't order on my ice cream, cuz someone dropped my cone in the container.  
> (that's good)

Sam and Missouri worked to straighten the disaster that was Gwinn’s living room, while the shaken witch busied herself in the kitchen, making them coffee.  She had put her trust in Castiel, who vowed to return with her daughter—just before disappearing with Jamie Fargo’s remains. 

“I can get up and help,“ mumbled Dean, faintly, from the spot where Cas had deposited him on the sofa.  “That demon twisted you up like a sailor’s knot, boy.  Your angel put you there for a reason—now rest.”

Dean waxed like he was ready to argue with Missouri, but in truth the hunter was loath to move.  Everything hurt and letting his head sink back slowly into an overstuffed throw pillow took most of his energy.  By the time Gwinn served hot coffee, Dean had slipped once again into unconsciousness.

He barely opened his eyes when Cas appeared with Amy, Gwinn’s stunned daughter and dozed off again during their tearful family reunion.

Next time Dean became aware, he found himself stretched across the back seat of the Impala, looking up at the back of his brother’s head.  His own head lay supported above the bench seat—someplace warm—and despite his aching body, Dean felt secure enough to go back to sleep.  The last thing the hunter was conscious of was a soothing feeling on his head.

 

Dean woke up in his own bed, relishing the gentle give of his memory foam.  As the hunter rolled over and lengthened his limbs—he stopped.  It didn’t hurt.  It didn’t hurt to move, it didn’t hurt to stretch—Hell, it didn’t hurt to breathe!  Sitting up and looking around, he saw that though it was daylight, he was wearing his usual sleepwear; a t-shirt and boxers.  Dean threw on his robe and padded down the hall to the map room, where a familiar figure sat with a book.  Sam rose to his full height quickly, wrapping his older brother in a bear hug, “Thank God.  Cas said you’d be fine now, but you’ve slept for days.”

Emerging from his brother’s clutches and looking around, Dean asked, “Where _is_ Cas?”

“He’s not here, Dean.”

“He left the bunker?  He left?”

“He had to, Dean.  What Amos had become was unnatural, aberrant; Cas’ grace suffered damage from powering that sigil.  Then he weakened himself healing us, taking care of Jamie’s body, and rescuing Gwinn’s daughter.  He stayed by your side day and night, keeping you asleep, so you wouldn’t be in pain.”

Dean remembered the safety he felt during the car ride—the comforting touch on his head.

“When you started having bad dreams, I guess Cas could relate all too well to just watch and he finished healing you—even though he was still weak, himself.”

Dean let that sink in, as he flexed his muscles, testing their renewed strength.

“So where is he now, Sammy?  You let him leave in that condition?”

“I think he went to Heaven, Dean.  He said he needed to absorb power from his home.”

Dean scrubbed both hands over his near-beard, shaking off his Rip Van Winkle nap and asked, “Is there coffee, Sam?”

His brother nodded and guided Dean into the kitchen, where he poured them each a steaming mug.  Dean took a careful sip, then hiding behind the rim said, “I could have sworn _this_ was his home, Sammy.”

“He said he’d be back, Dean—Cas isn’t welcome in Heaven, remember?”

“I hope you let him know he’s welcome here,” Dean shook his head at his brother, “still can’t believe you let him leave.”

Sam straightened up, from where he had leaned against the counter, “Look—like it or not, Dean, Cas is a big boy now.  He looked awful, totally drained.  I didn’t want him to go, either, but he said he had to—and I believed him.”

Taking his coffee, Dean headed for the hall, “I’m sure you did, Sam and I’m sure he did,” the hunter paused at the doorway, tucking in the flap of his dead-guy’s robe, “I’m sorry, Sam, I’m just—I don’t know, I’m just…something.”

Sam smiled at his older brother, “I miss him too.”

 

Dean took a shower worthy of a Guinness World Record. He heard someone at the door, as he was getting dressed.  Hurrying out with wet hair and no socks, he arrived in time to greet Missouri, her arms heavy with bags.  “Well, good morning, Prince Valium!  You’re just in time to help with the groceries.”

Dean took some of the burden from the psychic, as she turned her cheek towards the hunter.  Dean planted a chaste kiss on it and said, “I thought they might have dropped you off at home—Sam didn’t tell me you were still here.”

Sam entered with the rest of their much-needed food supplies, explaining, “I really didn’t have a chance,” closing the metal door behind him, with his big foot.

“So concerned about your angel, you forgot all about your psychic.”

Restocking their empty shelves, Dean dead-panned, “I couldn’t forget you, Ma’am—you’re the lady with the spoon.”

The dangerous finger arrived on cue, in the hunter’s face, “That’s right and I’d watch my p’s and q’s if I was Dean Winchester; nearly getting yourself killed-by-yoga won’t get that mouth of yours off the hook, boy.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” answered Dean, so subdued that the pointer of doom retreated.  Missouri considered the freshly-shaven man; tall, sturdy, clad in flannel and blue jeans—and looking like he was about cry.  A warm hand clutched Dean’s shoulder, “He’ll be back, honey.  Castiel’s whole world is right here.”  Keeping his eyes in the kitchen cabinet, Dean bit his bottom lip and nodded. 

They all chipped in their help to make lunch and feasted like royalty.  Leftovers and dishes away, Dean wiped off the counter, scooping up toy dinosaurs—as well as the well-used plastic sippy cup.

“You know, Sammy, I’ve been thinking.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, expectant.

“It’s a good thing that Cas is away—we got work to do.”


	27. Such Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is, the end. I'd like to thank DeadMockingBirds, once again, who encouraged me to write again, after many, many years. She is my mentor, my inspiration, my idol--my friend.  
> Everyone should have a Mock.
> 
> Also, a big shout-out to everyone who followed this story, commented, bookmarked, and left yummy kudos--Mock got me going, but you all kept me going. Much love.
> 
> I added some tags as I went along, mostly to hide some surprises and I added one more, that I debated on a while. While a writer's imagination fuels their work, our readers have imaginations of their own. Gonna just leave it there--whatever floats your boats.  
> \--LW

“Are you sure I can’t drive you, Missouri?  A bus to Texas isn’t exactly riding in style.”

The psychic took Dean by the jaw and leveled him with her _now-you-listen-here,-boy_ look, yet her voice was soft, “Listen, honey, I told you I’m not a delicate flower and public transportation won’t crush my fragile nature.  You and Sam have done enough travelling, lately—besides, your roommate will be back before you know it.”

“Cas?” Dean shook his chin loose, “He’s not exactly our roommate and you said you couldn’t see when he was coming back.”

“But I promise he is.”

A tall frame darkened the doorway and Dean looked to his brother for support, “Sam, tell her it’s no big deal to drive her home—after all she’s done for us?”

Sam entered, waving his palms, “I told you leave me out of it, whatever Missouri wants.”

“Thank you, Switzerland, very helpful.”

“Well, I’m staying here to accept the delivery, so it’s between you two,” Sam drew close to his brother’s ear, “My advice, let the Wookie win.”

Missouri roared like Chewbacca and they all cracked up, while finishing their afternoon beers. However, the two’s bickering only ended when Missouri agreed to _let_ Dean drive her across Kansas and Oklahoma to the Texas state line.

The Impala was once again packed, this time with luggage, when Dean went inside to put together a couple of to-go dinners.   Missouri hugged Sam goodbye, rocking affectionately in the shelter of his huge hunter arms.  “You take care of your handsome self, honey.  And please keep an eye on Castiel and your brother.  I haven’t known Cas long and now his grace makes him hard to read, but Dean’s lost--he’s grieving, Sam.  Now I know you’re hurting too, but I gotta tell you your brother is just as scared of your angel coming home as thinking he might not.  He’s got no idea who he is to Cas, now.  The one thing Dean’s sure about is he’s your brother—and he’s gonna need all the support you can give.”

Not completely done with their hug yet, Sam listened to the psychic, while they still gripped each other’s arms, nodding seriously, “of course, Missouri.  I’m missing the little guy too, but Dean and little Cas were—special.  I’ll watch out for him.”

Dean cleared his throat a little loudly, as he re-entered the garage, carrying John Winchester’s army-green Coleman cooler.  Missouri’s brow rose at the over-sized antique, “Is that sandwiches or a fried chicken dinner?”

As Missouri slid into the front passenger seat, Dean paused at his door, “You’ll take care of the rest before I get back?”

“No problem, Dean.  Drive safe—and don’t piss off the psychic!”

Nine hours later, Sam was busy screwing together a metal frame, when his phone buzzed in his pocket.  “Hey, Dean, almost home?”

“Not exactly, Sam.  By the time we reached Oklahoma, I decided it wasn’t that much further to Lubbock, so—“

“So you did what you wanted and pissed her off, right?”

“Right.  Man, Sammy, for someone so willing to help, to stick her neck out and have our backs—she sure can be a bitch if you cross her. I just left her house and—Man, Sammy.” Dean inhaled, with a hiss.

“Dean”

“Yeah, Sam?”

“Did you get a spanking?”

Silence.

“I’ll be back late, Sam.  Might have to stop again soon.”

“Be safe, I’ll see you when you get here,” Sam hung up quickly, just as his suppressed giggles exploded and he rolled on the floor, snorting beside his project.

 

Dean entered the darkened bunker around three a.m., closing the door quietly behind him.  As he descended the staircase, out of habit, the hunter whispered, “Sammy?”

“Sam went to bed an hour ago—said you’ve been working him to the bone.”

Trenchcoat, suit, tie, Cas.

“Hello, Dean.”

“H-hi, Cas.  When did you get here?”

“A few hours ago.  I found I do have friends in Heaven, but they’re not very practiced at coming and going in secrecy.  I had some difficulty.”

Dean stashed his keys and wallet in a drawer, “Ya want a beer, Cas?  I could use a beer, then you can tell me all about it.”

The two wound up in the kitchen, across the metal table from each other.  While Cas told Dean about his Heavenly adventure, the hunter downed two beers to the angel's half. 

Dean woke with a start, his elbow sliding on the table top. “I shouldn’t be telling you this now, Dean, you need rest.”

Dean really had wanted to hear Cas’ story—Hell, Dean had really wanted to hear Cas talk, but the miles had worn on the hunter’s body and at the mention of rest, it betrayed him with a gaping yawn.  Nodding through a second yawn, Dean collected the bottles and started shutting off lights.

“You’re right, Cas, but I wanna hear the rest tomorrow.”

Dean ushered his friend towards the hall and the bedrooms.  “Did Sammy show you?”

Cas shook his head, “He said that you had a surprise for me, then said, ‘See ya tomorrow’.”

“Will he, Cas?  I mean, are you planning on staying?  Here, with us?”

Cas had stopped walking near Dean’s door and now turned to face the hunter.  Blue eyes met green, as always, for moments too long.  “I would like to stay here—with you—very much.”

Dean smiled wide and led Cas along with an arm across his shoulders, “Great, c’mon, then.”

They stopped outside little Cas’ room, where they had kept his tiny super hero clothes, his toys, books—and his unused toddler bed.  Dean swung the door open to reveal a wholly different room.  The walls were lined with shelving, stocked with books, old and new. (Dean noted that Sam had added the Harry Potter series, flanked by the bible and a volume of angel lore.)  The bright images on the walls had been painted over in a neutral tan and a queen-sized bed sat central on the Berber carpet.  The open closet door revealed suit hangers and an extra blanket for the bed, which matched the brown and green-checked comforter.

Cas stood stock still, except his wide, blue eyes, which darted around the room, then fell on the bed—and stayed there.

“What’ya think, huh?  Glad Sam got the bed together in time, I was worried,” Dean stepped into the room, encouraging Cas to follow, but the angel stood his ground.  “These are some of the books we’ve seen you read…of course, you can change them for any ones you want.  Oh, and look at this picture—it’s the oldest telescope photograph of the night sky—I mean, you’ve seen it older, but we thought it was pretty cool.”

Cas nodded slowly, still focused on the bed.

“I, uh, know you don’t really sleep, but we couldn’t very well keep your old bed.  We gave all that stuff to the Baby Welfare Center, downtown, they were happy to have it.”

Cas still didn’t move, his face unreadable.

Dean was getting nervous, “Like I said, um…I know you don’t sleep, but you might want to rest once in a while, and—“

Dean pulled Cas into the room by his arm and closed the door behind him, revealing a wall-mounted flat screen TV, “You can chill and watch Netflix.”

Cas still didn’t look at the hunter, but took a few steps towards the bed, where his focus had lain, unwavering. “I’m not sure you understand the meaning of that phrase, Dean.”

The hunter watched as Castiel reached his goal, picking up the item from the center of the bed.  At last, Dean was quiet.

Cas ran his fingers over the soft fur, traced the green orbs and squeezed the plushness between his palms.  Sitting slowly on the bed, the angel straightened DearBear’s plaid flannel shirt, then did something Dean had never seen _big_ Castiel do before.  Two tear tracks rolled silently down the angel’s cheeks.  Dean sat on the bed next to his friend.

“You took _such_ good care of me, Dean.”

Dean shrugged, “It was easy, Cas.”

Finally looking at his friend, with wet eyes, Castiel answered, “No, Dean, it wasn’t. I was confused and frustrated—and terrified.”

“Ok, sometimes it sucked—for all of us.  But none of that was your fault, buddy.  Everything that happened—all of it—was because you wanted to protect us.”  Dean again wrapped an arm around Cas’ shoulders and was surprised—but really wasn’t—when the angel leaned sideways against him, still clutching his bear.

They stayed like that a long while, just sitting together with their sides touching.

Dean lifted his head with a start, when Cas said, “The room is perfect, Dean.  I’d like to thank you and Sam both for being so thoughtful.”

Shaking away the doze-off, Dean answered, “Glad to hear it, buddy. I’ve got to get my four hours, though, so why don’t you start your own Netflix folder?”

Cas stood when Dean did, “That sounds like a safe adventure.”

Dean reached up his arms, undoing the knots there, his voice strained with the stretch when he said, “Goodnight, Cas, I’m happy yo—“

Taking advantage of Dean’s spread arms, Cas gave the hunter a warm hug, which Dean only paused half a beat before returning.  “See ya tomorrow, Nugget.”

 

………..                                                         The End

 

[Obvious epilogue]

Cas climbed into Dean’s bed eleven minutes later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned, as I've already written another time stamp, so if you're missing Lil' Nugget, he'll be cavorting soon at Walmart with a couple of plaid-clad guys we know. (please bookmark Time Stamps for further updates)


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